


The Long Way Home

by coal15



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Big Ugly WAR, Dark Magic, Drug Use, Gen, Grief, Humor, Intervention, M/M, Romance, Survival, self destruciton, star crossed love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 18:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18555058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coal15/pseuds/coal15
Summary: This is a fix-it fic. Eliot's entire S5 storyline. I retcon the details of El and Margo's return to Fillory and what's going on there, but Q is still dead (for now). Eliot's arc for the season is all about finding a way to get him back.In this chapter, Margo re-takes the throne, Eliot spirals out in grief, and it reaches a critical moment that kicks off the whole season.





	1. The Long Way Home

Eliot and Margo decided to return to Fillory immediately after the funeral, only to find it in complete social and political chaos. Both Fen and Josh had been overthrown, and apparently  _killed_ by an angry mob, compounding grief upon grief.

Margo's new lover and Eliot's wife, a dear friend to them both, gone so close on the heels of Quentin's death? It was almost too much to bear. Only the need to fix Fillory held them to their better senses. It was a clear and immediate mission.

Every citizen was either in a panic, or grabbing for unearned power. Magic was intermittent and unpredictable, and Tick found himself unable to properly cope or reign as interim ruler amid the growing turmoil. In stark contrast to times previous, when he'd actively plotted to take the throne, he literally fell to the ground weeping with gratitude at the sight of Margo and Eliot entering the gates of Whitespire.

Poor Tick had long since processed the bitter reality that High King Margo was a far more capable (not to mention popular) leader than he would ever be. Even setting aside the issue of his personal exhaustion, allowing the stronger monarch to reclaim her crown was the more dignified option compared to watching himself sink ever lower in public opinion.

The transition went smoothly. As in, Tick tossed her the crown like it was a frisbee, declared "It's all yours. Best of luck," and returned to his role as professional sidekick without missing a beat.

Margo, always capable of stowing her shit, took the reigns of power and got down to business. Meanwhile Eliot promised to do the same . . . after he finished processing the worst of his grief.

"I loved him  _so much,_ Bambi. And you can rule without me for a while," he assured his best friend. "I know you can. You've got a whole council of advisers, and I need . . . I need time. I . . . I don't know how much, but . . ."

"But when you're ready . . .?" Margo let the question hover in the air between them.

He held her face gently in his hands, thumbs brushing away the tears that mirrored his own. "I will be by your side, right where I belong, and we'll fix this shitshow together, okay? I promise." He pressed a kiss to her forehead and that was that.

With Fillory being in such urgent need of Margo's full attention, the detail Eliot kept to himself was that the threads holding him together were weak, thin, and snapping one by one.

His silence was borne somewhat out of pride.  _I can hold it together myself._ But there also hid in his mind the persistent, familiar seduction of a darker motive. . .

Deep down he  _wanted_ those tethers to break. Every fucking one. So he'd be free to embrace the many beautiful, shining shortcuts out of pain.

Reckless debauchery.

Sex.

Apathy.

_Numbness._

The final struggling thread of willpower surrendered in under a week, letting loose all of his worst instincts. From that point on Eliot spent his days and nights living as though he'd joined a radical ministry dedicated to the gospel of self-destruction.

Brother Eliot Waugh, born again convert to the Holy Church of Slow Death.

It was all about crawling through pubs and opium dens, ingesting whatever substance might cloud his mind, and fucking nearly anyone who made eye contact.

It took a minute for King Margo to notice the situation, as ruling did occupy the bulk of her time and focus. But when she did, after a long and mostly circular argument, a deal was struck.

Margo would allow him to stay at Whitespire on two conditions: that he slept in the castle at least three nights a week, and he remain in Fillory. No going back to earth, and no crossing borders into neighboring Kingdoms. At all. For any reason.

A hazy-minded Eliot went along with the deal for the sake of simplicity. It ended an annoying argument, and having a guaranteed place to crash made his life easier.

None of Margo's advisers understood their King's willingness to let such a dear friend destroy himself, but all were certain that she had a plan.

 _You're not wrong,_ thought Margo as the council voiced their unanimous support for her decision.  _But right now it's a waiting game._

Meanwhile, about two months after she and Eliot agreed to the terms of their informal contract, both Josh and Fen came charging into the Castle out of nowhere within minutes of each other. Back from death. From the Underworld. Neither of them could recall specific details of their time there, or how they managed to return. Only that the loss of those memories had been a known and accepted pre-condition of their release. So it was more of a negotiation than a jailbreak.

"I came back at the bottom of a rocky cavern several miles east of here. It took me days and days to get out, but I did it," said Fen with a tired but radiant smile, clearly proud of herself.

"Badass!" Josh said with an impressed nod. " As for me? I blipped back to earth like, a million miles beneath the ocean. No clue how long it took me to swim to the surface, time got . . . kinda mushy."

"How did-" Margo began to ask.

"How'd I breath? Gills." Josh preemptively replied. "I mean they turned into . . . sorta _tattoos_ of gills as soon as I hit dry land, but underwater they were real. Oh, and another cool detail? I could communicate with sea creatures, even though I was on earth. Turns out octopi have a great sense of humor, jellyfish are generally shy, most whales give no fucks at all about anything not whale-related, and dolphins and seals  _literally_ call us their 'land pets.'"

"Land Pets?" Margo giggled, glad to have something whimsical to focus on. A distraction, no matter how brief, from the constant worrying over Eliot.  _When was the last time I laughed?_ She wondered.

"Yeah. Land Pets," Josh continued. "Seriously, anytime a few of them saw me I got stuck playing fetch or hide-and-seek for like  _hours._ And last but not least: any small fish that travels in schools? Great little guys on their own, but when they're migrating? They will  _fuck you up_ if you try to slow 'em down."

"What about you, Fen?" Margo asked. "Anything interesting happen on your way outta that cavern?"

"Um . . ." Fen shifted back and forth as though embarrassed by her comparatively dull story. "I um . . . I sharpened two rocks enough to help me climb. And uh . . . for a little while a nice caterpillar crawled onto my shoulder and cheered me on. She sang me little . . . little songs and things."

"Awww," Margo and Josh cooed in unison, both smiling at her.

"That's really sweet," the High King assured her.  _Okay, so much for fun and sweet. Time to bring them up to speed on the Eliot situation._

Josh seemed to understand her logic, but Fen was horrified. "Why are you enabling him, Margo?!" She shrieked, her eyes welling with tears. "How could you allow this to continue under your own roof? You're his best friend, if anyone can pull him back from a cliff, it's you! And all this time you've-you've been-"

"Look sweetie," Margo interrupted, hands on her hips.  _"No one_ can pull Eliot away from cliff until he's holding onto an anvil with one foot over the edge. Not even me. So when he does get to that point-and he fucking will eventually-I'm gonna lock his ass in the dungeon, force him to detox, and we'll go from there."

Fen scoffed in disgust, still baffled by Margo's strategy. "But if he's off and about on his own so often, what if you don't know in time?!"

"Y'got eyes on him?" Asked Josh, already certain of the answer.

"Undercover spies every fuckin' place he goes." said Margo with a proud, Kingly nod. "I've the got animals helping out, too. Insects, even. Trust me, the bitch is monitored 24/7, and as soon as shit gets down to the wire? It's Dungeon Time, baby."

Fen crossed her arms and mulled over the uncomfortably risky plan. "Well . . . it's not  _ideal._ But I guess . . . I guess you know him better. Has my room been kept in order?"

"Your stuff is gone, but the furniture's all there." Margo replied. "Dresser, mirror, bed."

The other woman slumped, resigned and in need of privacy. "Then if you'll excuse me, I need a nap."

Two days later Margo got a Bunny with the message that Eliot was on his way back to the Castle. So she summoned both Josh and Fen to the Throne Room, hoping a few familiar faces in the mix, especially ones back from the dead, might cheer him up. Particularly seeing Fen. She knew he wasn't in lovewith her in the traditional sense, of course, but she'd witnessed enough of their relationship to know that it was one of respect, loyalty, and partnership. Which did amount to _a_   _kind_ of love.

But when Eliot did finally shuffle into the room? Disheveled and reeking of . . . you name the substance, he smelled like it, his response was underwhelming.

"Heeeeey Margo," He lilted with a small wobbly smile, eyes bloodshot and pupils pinned. Then his gaze wandered between Fen and Josh. "Weren't you two dead?"

"Yeah buddy," Josh nodded. "We-"

Eliot held up a hand. "Tell me later. I'm sleepy." He gave Fen a tiny nod and wobbled down the hall toward his room.

Margo and Josh each held onto Fen while she cried, and cried, and cried.

 _El's gonna feel like dogshit about this once we sober him up,_ Margo thought angrily.  _He better feel like dogshit!_

Not long after Fen finally calmed down and Josh excused himself to brew a nice soothing pot of tea for them all, a large spider came charging around the corner, scrambling to a halt and bowing at Margo's feet as he spoke with hurried, breathless words:

"Needle! Vial of something and a needle!"

"FUCK!" Margo cried out, leaping to her feet.

"Does this count as foot-off-the-cliff?" Fen yelled as they both raced toward Eliot's bedroom.

"YES!"

Margo had the guards take a battering ram to the locked door, and entered to see Eliot in  _exactly_ the condition she'd expected. Slung crosswise on his bed, mumbling to himself, semi-lucid. It was awful to see, but Margo felt an odd sort of relief, certain that her best friend had now hit a low enough point to see reason. With help. After some ugliness.

 _Let's do this shit,_ she thought,  _I'm ready. Oh . . . but Fen . . ._  she stepped close to the stunned woman and spoke in a quiet, steady tone:

"It's okay if seeing him like this is too much for you," she assured. "I got it handled from here."

Fen set her jaw and squared her shoulders. "He's my husband. I'm staying."

The King shrugged with a deep sigh as a pair of guards lifted her incoherent friend by his arms and legs. "Then pull up a chair, honey, 'cause it'll be a while before his brain comes back to town."

With that, she turned to another group of guards who were standing nearby in wait of orders. "Look, we all know Eliot is a stealthy motherfucker, and if he managed to get ahold of whatever shit he's got in his veins right now  _without_ any of my spies noticing? I don't trust there isn't more of it hidden around here. Toss the whole Castle. Every goddamn inch, every crack in every wall. _All of it._  Go!"

With the grunt work handled, Margo and Fen sat outside Eliot's straw-matted cell with a fine chalice, pitcher of water, and loaf of bread on the table between them.

The sun was setting and torches lit by the time El had sense enough to realize his circumstances, and react with expected fury.

"LET ME OUT OF HERE!" He raged, kicking and beating the bars. "Let me  _THE FUCK_ out of here!"

"Nope," Margo responded calmly, smoothing down her dress.

"This wasn't part of our deal  _your majesty,"_ he growled, glaring like she was his worst enemy in the world. "I stayed in Fillory, I didn't go to New York, I-"

"Tough shit, Captain Junkie. Your ass is stayin' behind those bars 'til we've got you nice and sober." She paused, pretending to mull it over. "And maybe a week after that too, just for good measure."

Provoking his anger like this was also part of her plan. Get him worked up right away, let him wear himself out, then he'd be easier to deal with. More malleable. Maybe even a bit reasonable, if they were lucky.

And she was braced for the storm before the calm. All his rage, his ranting. Every cutting insult he'd hurl their way, every horrible name he'd call them. Margo was prepared.

Fen, however, began to break the moment his insults turned toward the details of their marriage. 'The most boring lay ever,' 'too stupid to even train,' and so on.

"He doesn't mean any of this," Margo quietly assured her.

"Have  _you_ tried fucking her?" Eliot scoffed. "It's like sleeping pills and a mannequin had a baby!"

Margo knew Fen was unraveling. Fast. And she didn't want this fucked-up version of Eliot to have the satisfaction of actually breaking someone. "Seriously Fen, this is one show you can miss. It's only gonna get more  _pathetic_ from here on out." Margo locked the other woman in a stern gaze and nodded, hoping Fen would catch her drift.

Drift caught.

The other woman clenched her fists, rose from her chair, and turned up her nose in Eliot's general direction before sweeping out of the room without a word.

After another fifteen minutes or so of yelling, El finally ran out of energy. At which point he marched to the far corner of his cell and sat down to sulk, arms crossed. "I'll never trust you again," he assured the King in a low, almost menacing tone. "You do know that, right?"

"Grand," said Margo with as much fake nonchalance as she could muster. "At least you'll be alive to not trust me."

They sat in silence for a long time before Eliot caved, finally asking for water and a piece of bread.

While he drained the chalice in several large gulps Margo brought over the pitcher, the rest of the bread, and sat down across from him, curling up against the bars. "Finish the whole pitcher, and I'll consider letting you go back to your room." She smiled softly. "I know how much you love those silk sheets."

Eliot gazed at her, and while the seething rage had vanished, there wasn't a single hint of warmth or friendship in his eyes. "You're lying," he whispered.

"Of course I am," Margo warbled in response, finally allowing a stream of tears to fall. "But I'd still  _really_ appreciate it if you finished the water, El." She tried again to smile, and nudged the pitcher within his reach.

He took ahold of the handle, and spoke calmly as he poured. "By the way, don't think I didn't know you had everyone spying on me, Bambi. A million babysitters aren't hard to spot. The insects though?" He held up his chalice as if giving a toast. "Now  _that_ was impressive. High marks for ingenuity."

The moment-the fucking  _moment_  he said those words a single bright, encouraging detail came screaming to forefront of Margo's attention.

"Why did we find you on top of the covers?" She asked.

"Pardon?"

"If you knew I had even the insects spying on you? You coulda hid under the covers to shoot up, right? But you were  _on top._ Where aaaaaaaallllllll the spiders and moths could see and come tattling on your ass."

His gaze slid to the floor while Margo leaned in as close to his face as the bars between them would allow.

"You let us catch you, El." She watched her best friend's features shudder, and listened as his breath grew shallow. "You _let us._  Guess what that means, bitch . . ?" She paused, silently daring him to meet her eyes again.

"What?" Eliot rasped, accepting her unspoken dare. "What the fuck does it mean, Margo?"

She replied, every firm, resolute muscle beneath her skin shaking with the rush of victory: "It means you wanna _live."_

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: Old Eliot starts to come back, and with so much time to do nothing but  _think,_ he realizes that there might, maybe, possibly be a long shot way of bringing Quentin back. Ergo, a reason to cooperate with his forced detox, be set free, and get to work.]


	2. Life Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot commits to detox, and comes up with a high-risk long-odds plan to bring Quentin back. Trickery and pain ensues.

Two nights after Margo tossed Eliot in the dungeon a guard came banging on her door in the dead of night.

"Is there a rebellion happening?" She yelled, not even bothering to rise from her pillow. "Or a hoard of invaders?"

"No, Your Majesty," came the guard's muffled reply.

"Then fuck off and let a King get some sleep!"

"Begging your pardon, but it's to do with your incarcerated friend, and you did say-"

Margo was dashing to the door, feet in slippers and throwing on robe before the man even finished speaking.

"What about Eliot?!" She gasped the words in a panic as she flung open the door. "Is he-"

"He insists he must speak with you now. Not at dawn," the guard specified with a wearied eyeroll. "Right. Now. This was made very clear. Repeatedly."

 _Fuck sleep._  Off they went to the dungeon.

"Heeeeeey, Margo," Eliot nodded in her direction as he paced back and forth. "So uh . . . yeah, withdrawal is starting to get serious here, and I, I," he stopped pacing and flung himself at the bars, clutching tight. "I want . . . I w-want this to . . . work.  _Fuck!_  . . . I wanna get, get . . . clean." Between every few words he stopped to gulp for air, his whole body covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Yeah?" Margo queried, drawing slowly closer to the bars, uncertain whether or not to believe him.

"Mmhm. B-but detox is . . . it's. . . once things get  _really shitty?_  I will try t-to . . . to bust out. I know . . . kn, know myself, and I . . . I fucking will."

Margo shook her head. "Don't worry El, these bars are solid."

Eliot drew in and released several deep breaths to calm himself and rally a bit of coherence. It took a minute but he managed to succeed. "Guards can be bribed, Bambi. Or blackmailed. I've got dirt on at least a dozen of them, we need to make a list before things get worse and I stop cooperating-which, to be clear, I will." He drew more deep breaths. "Ooooooh, I am _not_ looking forward to this," he muttered to himself.

Margo snapped her fingers at one of the guards. "You! Go get me a pen and something to write in, a notebook or something!"

"Also," her friend continued, "only the very straightest of straight men and gayest of gay women should be allowed to guard me. Because let's face it, I'm not above trading sex for favors if it's my only option. I mean, odds are I'll give it a shot anyway, but let's make sure I fail."

"Super straight men, turbo-dyke women," Margo nodded. "Got it."

"Okay." (the deep breathing continued). "And make sure all the super straight men  _are_ getting laid on the regular, because if high school taught me anything it's that horny, lonely straight boys are not picky about the source of their blowjobs."

The guard King Margo had sent to fetch pen and paper returned with the requested items, handing them over with a slight bow.

"Thanks." Was all she said to the man before returning her attention to Eliot. "Okay, any other helpful hints?"

"Ummmmm . . . have a fuckton of fresh straw onhand." He cast his eyes around the small cell. "It's gonna get  _so gross_ in here."

"Good times." The King began scribbling down El's instructions.

"Oh! And my nails need to be trimmed and filed down to  _nothing,"_ he pushed back his sleeves to reveal claw-marked arms. "See? And this is just the pre-game."

Margo turned around and snapped her fingers at another guard. "Nail clippers and a file. Now."

The woman nodded and rushed from the room.

Eliot continued. "And while we're on the subject of self-harm? You're gonna need to cast a spell on every hard surface in here I could possibly smash myself into."

"Y'mean, make 'em feel soft? Like pillows or something?" Asked Margo.

El shrugged. "Or make 'em push me away if I try. Whatever. As long as I can't crack my skull open."

"What else?" Margo felt a rush of adrenaline and hope as she continued to write. "Think. Anything."

"Well . . ." Eliot sorted through his mental catalog of  _'I'm done with partying'_ memories. "Every other time I've detoxed after a serious bender frustration and boredom were big themes so . . . stuff I can throw around or rip up would be good. Soft things, y'know? Things that can't hurt anybody. Um . . . reams of paper, like butcher paper, and dull charcoal. So I can scribble and shit, but not stab myself."

"Okay, this is good, this is good!" Margo knew they were likely only hours away from full-on ugly withdrawal, but at that precise moment it all felt like a fun brainstorming session. As if they were planning some kind of project or prank. Something normal. "What else?"

"Only give me food I can eat with my hands or a spoon. And if it's solid, have it cut up  _real small_ so I can't make myself choke on it. Even then, actually, I should probably eat with one wrist chained to the bars, with you or a guard sitting within smacking distance."

"Wow . . ." Margo breathed, impressed with her friend's rush of clarity. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

"I have to get healthy, Bambi. I need a clear head." He didn't tell her about the reason he was suddenly so damn keen on regaining health and sharp senses. He was in no condition to take a lecture, and she didn't need to know anyhow.

His teeth began to chatter and he could feel another wave of nausea coming on.

Margo placed a hand over his, giving his clammy palm a strong squeeze. "We're gonna do this, El. You and me. And I'm gonna make sure there's a healer down here at  _all times_ in case you seize or . . ."  _or if your heart stops,_ was the awful thing she couldn't bear to say.

El clenched his jaw and nodded, fully understanding the inference. "Well . . . I think that pretty much covers it," he warbled softly, doing his best not to let Margo see the full effect of his symptoms. "See you on the other side, yeah?"

"Damn right." She gave his hand one last squeeze before rushing from the room. There was a To-Do list to get started on, and not a second to waste.

Three months later Eliot was on a stroll through Whitespire's gardens, admiring blooms both ordinary and magical. Your standard roses mixed amongst those that shimmered with oscillating hues and occasionally hummed or giggled.

 _Am I ready to do this shit?_ He wondered.

For the last few months he'd been digging through spells, researching rumors, theorizing, deconstructing, and sifting through lingering remnants of The Monster's near-eternity of magical knowledge, some of which still wisped about in his brain like broken spider web in a breeze.

Finally Eliot had a rough plan in mind. Still some fine-tuning to be done, but . . . _b_ _y this time next year, Q could be alive._ He considered carefully the question of timing.  _Am I ready? Have I recovered enough? . . ._ in the end, he knew it was time to push away doubt, choke down fear, and get the fuck to work.

Step one: blood.

 _The Witch in the Woods._ Eliot thought. He remembered her from the time Q gave her a vial of his blood so she'd use her healing magic to bring back his not-so-dead 'dead friends.'

"Oh Q," he mused aloud. "You naive little sweetheart."

In the course of his research Eliot learned that the Witch of the Darkling Woods had a particular interest in blood magic. In fact, scoring blood was like . . . her _thing._ And blood given willingly carried the strongest magic. It wasn't completely useless if extracted by force _,_ but it did make a better conduit for spellcraft when offered freely, even if under false pretenses.

She was basically a con artist, and a single tiny vial of Q's blood would've never brought him, Margo,  _and Alice_ back from the dead. She scammed it from him in order to fuel other blood-magic spells.

Point being: the Witch drew blood. Lots of it. Purchase, bargain, trade; whatever got her blood.

The spectacular amount he needed drawn from himself would seem suspicious to anyone with a brain and like most cons, the Witch was known for her intelligence. Not idiocy.

_Whatever. Prepare to be conned, Con Lady . . ._

It was time.

El knew it was.

"You need what for a what now?" High King Margo asked with a confused frown when Eliot approached her with the strange request.

"A Knight's uniform," he repeated. "You don't have to actually Knight me, I just need the uniform."

The frown deepened. "Is this a role-playing thing? Does someone have a Knight in shining armor fetish?"

"Okay, first off," El grinned,  _"everyone_  wants a Knight in shining armor whether they admit it or not."

Margo grinned, grateful as hell that her best friend had survived a brutal detox and not only regained his lost strength and weight, but also the fucking irreplaceable sense of humor.

"And second," Eliot continued, "no. No fetish. It's for a spell I'm putting together. To help me, uh . . . to help . . ." he cleared his throat and dropped his voice by several volumes. "Create a human body."

"Aw, fucking  _Christ,_ El! I told you, I've kept in touch with everyone on earth, and  _everything has been tried!"_ Margo explained, forcefully enunciating every syllable. "Quentin. Is. Dead.  _Dead-_ dead. A dead-er dead than-"

"Than we've dealt with before, yeah," Eliot interrupted. "He's tits deep in death, I know. But Josh and Fen both found a way out, so I have to believe Q is either trying, or thinks he's got no reason to. But Margo, you have  _no idea_ how much work I've put into figuring all this out, okay?"

His friends' frown began to soften, which Eliot took as permission to continue. "I've cobbled together like five different strains of magic and spells and shit, then there's a few of my own theories in the mix, so I may have some trial and error to work out, but I think I can do it. If not bring him  _back_ back, at least get the message to him that I'm  _trying_ -" he shook his head, "but that's getting ahead of myself, let's stick to the here and now. All I need from you. Right now. Is a Knight's uniform. That's all I need."

Margo looked up at her dearest friend with deep empathy and sorrow as she took ahold of his hands. "This isn't healthy, El. I love you, but no. Shitty as it is, you gotta to move on."

Eliot drew a deep, shaky breath and dropped to one knee as though asking for her hand. "Please. I swear I'll be careful. And if my big plan doesn't work, then I'll drop it and . . . and try to move on. I'll do my absolute best. But for now? I am  _begging_ you, Bambi. Just this once, for old time's sake. Enable me."

The King pulled her hands free of his and crossed her arms. "Just the uniform?" She asked with a weary sigh, feeling stuck somewhere between annoyed and defeated.

"Yes," El nodded as he rose to his feet.

"Fine. Follow me."

"Oh, also a  _teensy scroll_ stating that I'm your emissary with your signature and the royal crest stamped on it."

"God _DAMMIT, EL!"_ Margo yelled, stomping her foot to punctuate the words.

"Last thing!" He insisted, arms outflung as if to ward off a physical attack. _"Actual_  last thing, I promise!"

Margo stepped close and poked him in the chest. "For the record, Eliot: I'm only giving you the scroll because I know if I don't you'll just forge it anyhow."

Normally he would've been offended and demand she apologize for thinking so little of him, but in this case she was right, and he knew it. Quentin's (possible) life was on the line, and that meant nothing was off the table. Not lying, not cheating, not  _anything._

Early the next morning Eliot strode down a narrow path toward the Witch's cottage, rehearsing a rough script along the way. It was vital that he present himself with a Knightly authority. Certainty and confidence.

She had to believe he was there on a mission by order of the High King, and any failure to comply would result in dire consequences.

Back when he first began formulating this scheme (somewhere around week two behind bars), he imagined simply telling her truth. A lost lover he hoped to resurrect. Even if the plan was doomed to fail, what did she care so long as he also gave up a decent amount of blood for her own use as payment?

But then detox progressed and with more and more clarity returning to him, he saw the critical flaw in that plan.  _She's a con,_ he realized.  _She manipulates. If I let her see how much I need this, she'll know I'd let her bleed me for a year and claim as much as she wants for her own use along the way._

No. He needed to make sure she held as few chips as possible in their upcoming negotiation.

So rather than knock on her door when he arrived, he stood at the periphery of her garden and called out in his most imperious tone: "Witch of the Darkling Woods, I am Sir Eliot Waugh! I come bearing orders direct from-"

"Goodness sakes, young man!" The woman scolded as she emerged from her little home. "I'm not deaf and one needn't shout to convey importance, so lower your voice!"

"Ahem," Eliot tugged at his uniform, squirming with teenage-like awkwardness as the Witch approached.  _You're a KNIGHT!_ He reminded himself.  _Super powerful fucking hot shit! ACT LIKE IT!_ "I will speak how I choose," he informed her, albeit in a quieter tone. "The King requires four quarts of blood to be drawn from my veins over whatever period of time necessary to avoid risk to my life, and a further two quarts for your own use as a token of gratitude."

He took the bullshit scroll from his satchel and handed it over for her to peruse.

"Four quarts of blood, plus two for me," the Witch mused. "That's six quarts total."

"Yes, that is how  _math_ works." (Imperious. As.  _Shit.)_

The Witch pursed her lips and shot him serious stink-eye. "Does the King encourage such attitude in her all Knights, or is this just  _you?_ I'm honestly asking, I don't much follow politics."

Real-Eliot thoroughly respected the woman's brazen sass in the face of authority. Hell, throw in a few cock references and some curse words, and she could almost pass for an older Margo.

But  _Sir_ Eliot was a power-tripping asshole, and he needed to stay in character.

To that end, he completely ignored her question.

"We will begin at once," he informed her, already rolling up a sleeve. "Draw as much as safely possible, and wait the least amount of time necessary before drawing again," he instructed. "The King's need is urgent."

He followed behind the Witch as they entered her cottage.

"I hope you truly loved whoever the King is trying to raise from the dead," she said casually, as though they were discussing fashion. "Otherwise the magic won't be nearly strong enough." She held the door open for him. "Honestly, even then her odds are basically crap."

Eliot was taken aback. "How did know-"

"I deal in blood magic, you  _dolt."_ The Witch scoffed. "Why else would anyone need four quarts? So in the interest of not wasting anyone's time, by which I mean  _my_ time: did you truly love whomever the King means to bring back?"

"Mmhm," the fake Knight nodded, doing his best not to show  _too much_ motion. "He was my best friend."

"And you miss him?" The woman pushed. "Painfully? Horribly?"

"Of course!" Eliot insisted, barely holding back tears.

"Good," said the Witch with a satisfied nod. "Focus on those feelings as hard as possible when we draw." She pointed to a long slender table pushed against the far wall. "And with my personal  _highly specialized_  magic to aid the process, we'll be able to safely take one pint every five days."

"Okay," said Eliot as he slid onto the table and laid down, arm awaiting the needle. "So that's . . . two pints in a quart, six quarts, that's twelve pints, a pint every five days, that's, um . . ." the pile of numbers and measurements had him a tad mixed up. "How many days is that?"

"It's twelve times five, dear," the woman replied with a smirk. "That's how  _math_ works."

 _I really do like this woman!_ He was on the verge of showing a small smile, but caught himself at the last second."In that case I'd rather not spend all this time calling you Witch Lady. A name, please."

"Ruth. I know, so ordinary for a powerful witch, but my parents lacked imagination. Now back to business. Start thinking about your Big Dead Love," she instructed while jamming the needle in his arm with all the gentleness of a charging bull. "And if you do start crying? The harder the better."

" _Rrgh!"_ Eliot winced. "Will-will it . . . help?" He asked. "Make the m-magic stronger?"

"For a resurrection spell, yes. It will help create a better . . . I guess you could say  _imprint_ in the blood of the person it's being asked to bring back. So the more time your blood spends soaking up all the love and grief as it leaves your veins? The better."

There was a pint-sized jar perched on a stool to his left with a tube feeding into it, and Eliot watched as his blood began to fill the small jar. Quickly.

"Then is there a way to slow it down?" He asked Ruth, his mind already swimming with vivid memories of Q.

"Excuse me?" The woman made a swift motion with her right hand and the bloodspill came to an immediate halt. "Slow it down?"

El nodded. "If . . . lingering on everything I feel . . . makes the magic stronger? Then yes. As slow as you fucking can."

Eliot built himself a basic twigs-and-ferns shelter within eyeshot of the cottage, and once every five days spent six or seven hours on Ruth's rickety table with a needle in his arm, sobbing but hopeful.

By the fourth draw, Eliot was almost used to it. Letting himself bathe in memories, longing, and grief for the better part of a day.

"All cried out, are we?" asked The Witch as she came in carrying a basket full of fruit and vegetables.

"Yeah," he sighed, still trying to catch his breath. "I think that's it for today."

"Mmhm." Ruth set down her basket and took up the ball of yarn and knitting needles resting in the chair by Eliot's table. "Tell me about his sense of humor again?"

"You're such a  _cunt!"_ El wailed as fresh tears pooled in his eyes.

"I know," Ruth responded, gently patting his shoulder as she sat down.

"Honestly, fuck you!" Despite his anguished tone, Eliot was grateful for the prodding. If it gave his blood a stronger magic for the wildly improbable long-shot spell he had in mind? Then all her cruelty was nothing but a well disguised kindness.

On the day of their final draw, Ruth presented 'Sir Eliot' with the scarf she'd been knitting.

"Th-thank you," He sniffled, accepting the item. Wide bands of deep purple with thin stripes of pale green.  _I would actually wear this._

"You're welcome." Ruth nodded, hands clasped in front of her, posture rigid like a straight laced school marm.

For all her pretense, if Eliot didn't know better he would swear he even saw her almost, somewhat,  _nearly_ smile.

"And I made soup and a berry pie and you're not leaving here for at least a few days." She said with a clear lack of interest in argument. "Not until I'm sure you've recovered your strength."

"How motherly of you, Ruth." El said with a weak chuckle, wobbling with her help to the small dining table where sat a waiting bowl of soup.

"What can I say?" Ruth shrugged. "You're like the son I completely forgot to have."

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: Eliot sneaks back to earth to get a few more supplies. It turns out to be a lot more complicated than expected, and he has to improvise.]


	3. Bones to Pick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot keeps going, and does whatever the fuck it takes to get what he needs. It *does not* make him popular.

The lie of omission felt gross. It was an unspoken code between him and Margo that they didn't keep secrets, and they sure as hell didn't lie to each other. But in this case? . . . He couldn't take the chance that she'd lock him up again. Or try some other way to stop him.

 _She'll forgive me when Q is alive again,_  he thought.  _She'll understand._

Alice had information he needed.

Alice was on earth.

Alice was fully entrenched in the fight against the Library, and no way in hell would she take time out to visit Fillory.

So he had to break his promise to Margo, and leave Fillory.

"The King wants me to keep your four quarts of blood here?" Ruth asked as he packed his satchel, beginning to smell the bullshit.

"Mmhm," Eliot nodded. "Until it's needed for the-we feel,  _she feels_ it's better if you're the one to watch over-"

"The King doesn't give a tin shit about raising this boy from the dead does she?"

El slumped. He knew it was pointless to carry on with the lie. "I mean, 'tin shit' is an overstatement, he was her friend too, but . . ."

"She doesn't want you to die attempting maybe the riskiest magic there is?"

"In a nutshell," Eliot nodded.

"I must say, I am a bit on her side in this." Ruth heaved a deep sigh and pursed her lips. "But I'll do it. I'll hide the blood."

"Thank you, Ruth."

Early on in his extended stay at what he'd come to think of as The Cottage of Tears and Blood, he'd sent Margo a bunny explaining that he needed time away to 'clear his head.' He also  _might have_ implied that he was starting to maybe perhaps let go of any plan to bring Q back from the dead.

And when he did return to Whitespire after spending so much time away, he continued to say nothing on the subject. Instead distracting his best friend with talk of how soothing it was to wander the beautiful forests and charming villages of Fillory. How he felt  _so much better._

 _. . ._ In essence, he he spoke and wore the posture of a man moving on from heartbreak. 

After a week or so, Eliot was almost certain his friend had called off the spies, human and otherwise. But he had to be sure.

_I haven't gotten this far just to have some housefly rat me out._

So he devised a little trick. He got ahold of some good old fashioned marijuana, lit up a joint, and waited for Margo to chew him a new asshole when one of her little buggy buddies tattled on him. He did this several times at various locations around the castle.

Not a word from Margo.

 _Okay,_ he thought.  _Go time._

He employed a simple charm to reveal every open portal to earth in Whitespire. It turned out that previous Children of Earth who'd sat on the throne must've traveled home quite a bit, because the castle was  _lousy_ with portals.

"Well," he sighed, looking at the map, which was dotted with portal locations. "One of you must lead to the apartment."

He couldn't just hop in and out of portals at will. He had to be sneaky so none of the servants or guards caught him _._ Sure, the actual spies were off his ass, but if anyone saw him portal-hopping? That news would almost certainly find its way to the King.

So over the course of several weeks he learned hundreds upon hundreds of useless things.

From the five portals located in the East Wing, he could travel to:

1) The Swiss Alps

2) A trailer park somewhere in the armpit of get-me-out-of-here, USA

3) A street market in China

4) A skeevy whorehouse of unknown location

5) The decaying remains of what he assumed was once a lovely home.

And as his hunt for the right portal continued, El also found pathways to dance clubs, restaurants, sports stadiums, bookstores, forests, lakes, homes, amusement parks, FBI headquarters (which created a whole litany of questions he didn't have time to give a shit about), a nursing home, several hospitals, lots of universities, a sweatshop, a fish farm, and the living room of a fake-tanned middle aged woman who probably didn't even see him through the dense cloud of cigarette smoke before he hopped back through the portal.

"YES!"He shrieked at the top of his lungs the day he finally stepped through the correct portal.

_The apartment!_

"Fuck," he heard Alice's voice behind him and spun around to see her rising from the sofa, somewhat less than thrilled to see him. "Are you still trying to raise Quentin? Margo sent us a bunny about it months ago. Are you?" She crossed her arms. "Still trying?"

"Yes." Eliot set his jaw, sensing an argument on the horizon.

Alice approached him, but stopped several feet shy of touching distance. "I tried everything, Eliot. Really. Fucking  _everything_ I could think of, and not to sound arrogant, but I'm the best Magician I know of and  _I_ couldn't bring him back. So for your own sake just . . . accept it, and . . . and find a way to move on."

Eliot shook his head. "Not if I don't have to. I'm not talking about a simple spell, Alice. I've spent nearly eight months getting details figured out, but I think I've put together the right handwork and incantations and magical items-and no, before you ask, I will not tell you all the details 'cause I'm not convinced you wouldn't try to stop me."

"Do you think Quentin would want you to waste your time like this?" She asked with a deep, sad frown. "Especially on something so dangerous? I didn't want to accept him being gone either, but he would want us to have lives. To go out and . . . enjoy the world, and each other, and get old, and . . . and everything . . ."

"You don't understand," said Eliot, struggling not to cry.

"I'm not saying it's easy," Alice sighed. "Jesus, most days were pure hell at first. But now it's . . . I'm starting to move on. And if  _I can? . . ."_ she let the rest of her statement hang in the air.

Despite the fact that her advice was both healthy and reasonable, it made Eliot angry. "Right," he nodded, his lips forming a tight, thin line. "Because he was your boyfriend, is that it? So like, _your grief_ must be the fucking  _apex_ of pain? Hm?"

Alice opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

"First of all," he practically growled a clenched jaw. "You do know we were together during our quest to get the key, right?"

"Yes, but-"

"For fifty years!" Again, he cut her off. "And we were  _together_ together, in case that wasn't clear!" By that point he knew he was being more than a little bit petty, but between the grief and everyone  _constantly_ getting in his way, he didn't give a shit. "Meanwhile, Alice, if we piled up all the days you two spent as a couple it wouldn't even fill up half a calendar. And while we're at it, here's another little fact for you: most of those days he was your goddamn  _puppy,_ not your partner!"

"That is not-"

"He and I grew old together. We loved the same woman together, mourned her death together, raised our son  _together_. He dug. My fucking.  _Grave!"_ By then Eliot was furious, spitting the words as they left his mouth."So don't you  _dare_ compare your loss to mine!"

Alice looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, determined not to let Eliot drive her to tears. "Why are you even here?" She asked, choosing to bypass a pointless argument and cut to the chase. "I mean did you just . . . I don't know, swing by to insult my relationship with a dead man, or is there an actual point to this visit?"

It was then that Eliot took a moment to rally his senses.  _Well this could have gone better. Idiot._ "There is a point," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "I need your help."

"FUCK YOU!" Alice yelled, truly shocked. "Where the hell do you get off just poofing in here out of nowhere, being a  _raging asshole_ to me and then-"

"Look, I'll trade you!" Eliot insisted, placing a hand on his sturdy canvas satchel. "I found a potion that helps dull grief when it gets to be too much. It doesn't take away memories, or even change them. Just makes things . . . easier."

"How much easier?" Alice couldn't help but ask.

Despite all the tension and bitterness between them Eliot knew she was still knee deep in the thick muck of grief.

 _How to I phrase this?_ He wondered. Words needed to be chosen carefully. "It's sort of a . . . 'choose your own dose' kind of thing. It doesn't work for everyone, but I'm willing to trade you some of my supply for a new-body-building spell along with any notes you have. There's at least one spell that can do that, right? Build a human?"

Alice shuffled her feet, annoyed at her own urge to give in and help him. "Osseous Converbium," She grumbled. "I was going to build Penny a new-"

"Fantastic!" Eliot cut her off, dizzy with relief. "You give me the book or scroll or whatever, and I'll give you this," he removed a corked clay jug from his satchel. "Dulls the grief, helps with sleep, you'll love it."

Alice reached for the jar, but Eliot held it away from her.

"Information first. Then you can have the potion. Nothing personal, I just . . . I really can't afford to trust anyone too much right now."

As Alice went about finding the right book and scribbling down her own additional notes and alterations, Eliot placed his hands behind his back and went through a series of poppers designed to alter the portal from Whitespire. If he had everything right, he'd be the only person able to step through it. 

While 'Student' Eliot wasn't exactly known for a keen interest in studying, 'Man On A Mission' Eliot was Albert Goddamn Einstein. Within months of his release from the dungeon, he'd mastered every possible way to manipulate portals. He still sucked balls at building them, but piggybacking on someone else's work and doing his own thing with it? Yeah, he could teach a fucking graduate class on that subject.

"There." Alice folded her pages of notes into the book and gave it to Eliot as he handed over the clay jug. "I still think you'll fail. And maybe die. But . . . I hope you don't."

"Die or fail?"

"Either, I guess."

"Thank you. Really."

Alice opened up the jug, and Eliot dashed toward his portal.

"THIS IS JUST TEQUILA YOU  _DICK!"_

 _Grief dulling potion,_ he thought.  _T_ _echnically not a lie if you think about it._

At the end of the day he did consider Alice a friend, and he intended to apologize for bending the truth and being so mean; but Alice herself had a record of deciding what should be done and making sure it happened no matter who she had to lie to or manipulate. So if nothing else, his methods just gave them another thing in common besides loving the same man.

Once he was inside the locked portal, surrounded by void, he took his next big risk. Tried a spell he'd only found one mention of in a book called Dheera's Compendium. In theory, it would let him change the portal's exit point. All he could do was cross his fingers and hope.

And for once, things went smoothly. He leapt through the portal's exit and into a heavily graffitied alleyway between two big blue garbage bins, right where he'd intended to be.

Eliot took a deep breath, stepped into the middle of the alley, and used some simple magic to reveal a hidden door right next to a plainly visible one, both situated beneath a flashing red sign reading:  _The Cat Call Club,_ with silhouettes of large breasted naked women on either side of the text.

He didn't have much experience with Hedges, but during his time at Brakebills the quest for magical party drugs had brought him into occasional contact with the skeevier members of their loose knit society.

 _Lovely place,_ he thought as he approached the 'invisible' door and knocked. A peephole opened.

"Yeah?" A man rasped in a voice that said 'I began smoking at birth.'

"I need to see Lenny."

"Passcode?" (probably several packs a day since preschool)

"Firelight."

"Second passcode?"

"Brakebills eats ass."

Captain Cigarettes opened the door, led him down a narrow hallway, and held open a door to their left. "You first."

The room was small, and more organized than Eliot expected. "Lenny, I assume?" He asked a portly balding man sitting behind the single beat-up old desk.

"Yes," the man nodded. "And what can we do for you today?"

"I hear you have ground up fairy bones for sale. There's a limited supply of that in the world."

"You'd be surprised," Lenny chuckled. "Lotta rich Magicians had this shit stashed all over the fuckin' place. Til my friends and I started . . . let's say 'liberating' it."

"Interesting. Anyhow, I hear that your fairy dust has been. . .  _enhanced_ somehow. _"_ Eliot explained. "That it can make spells like a thousand times stronger, and help the spellcaster-"

"Keep it up?" The man gurgled out a deep belly laugh. "Yeah, you heard right. And why would someone like you need that kinda stuff?"

Eliot frowned. "Um . . . I don't think you understand your job very well, Lenny. You don't survey potential buyers. You sell. Then you push for more sales, and more, and more, so let's get to the point, shall we?"

"I'm just curious is all," Lenny replied. "Everything about you says 'classically trained.' Ain't that enough?"

"What can I say, I'm competitive. Looking to up my game and I need a bump. Do you have more questions, Lenny? Is there a written quiz?"

"How much do you want?" The man asked, fiddling with a massive gaudy ring on his index finger. "I got fifteen kilos on hand, it's a thousand bucks a kilo. Cash only. No fuckin' deweys, that whole market's been destabilized with this dumbass  _rebellion_ bullshit."

"Grand." Eliot withdrew a bundle of cash from his satchel. (or rather, blank paper enchanted to look like thousand dollar bills). "I'll take it all."

He could tell Lenny was suspicious as to the source of so much money. Like maybe Eliot was setting up some kind of trap. "Look," he said, tone dripping with privilege and boredom. "I'm a wealthyass, trust fund fuckhead descended from a long line of similar fuckheads. And we just wanna have some fun with serious,  _hardcore_ magic."

A few minutes later Eliot walked out of the hidden drug den with a small briefcase full of fairy dust. He could feel the magic humming off of it.  _Damn, this shit is REALLY enhanced! I wonder how they do it?_

Excitement tingled through his whole body as he headed for the portal. Only one raw material left to fetch, and then he'd have everything he needed to bring Q back.  _Might take me weeks of research to find the right-_

"You  _prick!"_ Lenny snuck up behind him, throwing a brass-knuckled punch that knocked him to the ground before he had time to think, much less rally any magic. "You think just because I'm a Hedge I don't know how to turn off a glamour?" He kicked Eliot several times in the chest while the doorman re-claimed his suitcase.

"How-" Eliot wheezed, spitting out mouthfuls of blood. "How'd you-"

"How'd I know?" Lenny kicked him again. "I got good instincts you little  _fuck,_  and my gut told me to check. So what's your game, asshole? Plannin' to turn around and sell  _my_ shit? Edge me outta the market?"

"N-no." Eliot rasped as he struggled to sit up.

His clever plan having failed, it was time for a hail mary pass. Honesty and begging.

"I need, I n-need the extra, the magic to sa-save . . ." he groaned and rasped as he finally managed to sit upright. "To save someone I love. More than anything." He struggled through the raging pain in his head to look up at his attacker. "I don't give a shit about dealing. I just wanna save-please, just name a price for . . . for half that amount. I won't try to cheat you again, I promise. Just, please! I don't know of anyone else who has this stuff, so you're it, you're my only option!  _Please!"_

Eliot hoped against all reason that Lenny wouldn't turn down the prospect of making more money, and perhaps landing a regular client.

"Eight thousand," said Lenny. "You bring me that, and I'll give you seven and a half kilos. Consider the extra five hundred bucks a fee for pissing me off."

"That's fair," Eliot nodded, slowly rising to his feet as every muscle in his torso screamed with pain. He held out a hand to shake on the deal. "I'll be back soon."

The goal of his quest had Eliot thinking fast.

Fast and clear.

_Time to find an ACTUAL rich fuckhead to rob._

There were three basic options. Stealthy breaking and entering. Threats at gunpoint. Or gain access to some wealthy idiot's money via seduction and go from there. El knew right away what his safest option was, and as he'd already been beaten to shit and had no intention of risking further injury? His safest option was also the grossest.

He needed to find some kind of event populated exclusively by rich douchebags, like ten thousand dollar a plate fundraising dinners. Then glamour his way onto the guest list, and sniff out the right man. 'Right' in this case meaning: queer, horny, and willing to pay.

It wasn't his lack of enthusiasm for this unseemly necessity that upset him the most. No, he was most upset about the fact that finding the right event to work this con could take weeks. Maybe even months.

To have gotten  _so near_ the finish line only to have it kicked further down the road? It felt awful.

Worse than the bruises.

Worse than the prospect of selling himself.

Worse than anything.

Staying focused on his goal was the only thing that kept him upright and moving forward.

Alice was leaning against the kitchen island downing shots of tequila with Kady when Eliot re-emerged from the portal. Neither woman displayed much interest in his injuries.

"You  _suck!"_ Said Alice.

"I know," Eliot grumbled as he made his way to the counter and sat down. "I'm an asshole. I also need to crash here while this, um . . ." he pointed at his own face, "this shit heals."

Kady looked at Alice.

Alice said nothing.

Kady looked at Eliot. "Screw it," she breathed, pouring him a shot. "You're probably a dead man anyway, and the Library's been picking off Hedges one by one, so yeah." She and Alice both held up their shot glasses. "Welcome to Casa De  _Fucked."_

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: Eliot plays dress-up, finds a customer, and gets by with a little help from his friends . . .]


	4. What's In A Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I let this chapter go where it wanted to go, and it honestly surprised me. But I make it a point never to force my narratives, so I went with it.

Margo sent bunnies every other day asking for updates, and usually several begging him to come back. His responses varied depending on his mood. Sometimes she got the bunny back with a polite "please try to understand, Bambi," or "I can't quit now, I've come too far."

Other days the return bunny was a bit crankier.

"Back the fuck off, please."

"Bite me, Mommy."

"Get outta my ass, Margo."

The bruises on his face took nearly three weeks to heal completely. And his ribs hurt like hell for several more weeks after that. It hurt to fucking breathe for more than a month. So even when his face got all nice and pretty again, he still had to wait.

An escort who could barely breathe without cringing wouldn't be much fun, and he had to be worth a hell of a lot of money when the time came. Spectacular. A hundred percent A-game.

After considering his options, he decided on just one client, and maybe a week or so for the full amount he needed to acquire. A flat eight thousand. Yeah. Latching onto one Rich Dickhead and getting all the money in one go seemed far preferable to clawing his way into the Rich Dickhead social circuit and then have to go shopping for guy after guy.

 _Too much work. Too much time. I need quick and simple . . ._ he could almost hear his eyes rolling at that thought.  _Quick and simple. Right. Is that even a thing anymore?_

Anyhow, whilst waiting for his injuries to heal, Eliot made phone calls to upscale hotel ballrooms and other well known venues posing as a reporter doing a story on extravagant charity events.

"My angle is like . . . is it for the good of the cause, or just so they can all hang out at the country club and brag about their pet charities? An altruism versus ego sorta thing."

After what he estimated to be three or four zillion phone calls and quite a bit of googling, he found the right pool to go fishing in.

The Angel's Hope charity dinner, benefiting St. Jude Children's Research Hospital. Fifteen thousand a plate. Minimum. With the option to throw down more.

_And now, let's dress for success. Time to go shopping!_

He figured the odds of some random salesperson at an upscale clothing store also being a Magician capable of sniffing out a spell were extremely slim, so he went ahead and glamoured another massive stack of money-sized paper. Easy magic.

_Work smarter not harder._

Several hundred thousand pretend dollars later, he had his weapons of choice. Fantastic suit complete with pocket square, eye-catching vest and tie, both flamboyant but not too . . .  _overtly queer,_ and nice shiny shoes handcrafted by some shoemaking asshole with a pretentious name. He even went ahead and "bought" several vest-and-tie combos.

He excused the unnecessary excess on the grounds that months and months of crushing misery and a brutal beating had earned him something of a perk. The nice things provided him the  _teeniest bit_ of a pick-me-up.

A distraction.

A few minutes of some goddamn  _fun._

"How do I look?" He asked Alice a few days before the big night. "Be honest. I have to blend in to a certain extent, but I'll be using eye contact, body language, and maybe some light physical contact to get my point across. The clothes need to me help sell my  _subtle message."_

Alice's face scrunched up in distaste. "The subtle message here being that you're for sale?" She shook her head. "I don't get it, Eliot. Why not just flirt a guy out of some clothes, swipe a debit card, and magic your way around the PIN?"

"Because," said Eliot as he smoothed down the vest. "I've already had to tell dozens of lies and run a bunch of cons, and it's making me feel dirty."

"And whoring yourself out  _won't?"_

"Sex for money is an honest transaction, Alice," he explained. "And I recently used . . . shit, I don't even know how many sex partners for nothing more than trying to fuck away the pain. At least this time it's a tactical move. With a purpose."

She still looked uneasy.

"Besides, have you met me? When have I ever had a monogamy fetish?"

"Eeerrrr," Alice grumbled, wrapping her arms tight around her midsection. "Just don't let Quentin find out about it if you do manage to bring him back."

Eliot chuckled quietly. "It is  _astounding_ how much you didn't get him. We were a throuple with a woman in Fillory, and I slept with a few other men as well. Not a ton, just . . . y'know. A few. Over the  _fifty years_ I believe I've mentioned before."

"Once or twice," said Alice with a wearied half-glare.

"And we were fine," he shrugged. "Honestly, now that I think of it, the tons of anonymous sex I had in a tragic drug-addled stupor is more likely to upset him than this. But as for the here and now, sweetie? The worst I'm braced for is a week of boring or terrible sex."

"Sure," Alice nodded. "Or maybe a psycho who wants to tie you up and gut you like well dressed fish!"

"Hm . . ."  _that is a valid concern._ "Hey Penny!" Eliot yelled down the hallway. "I need you to hide out and read minds at this dinner thingie, okay?"

"Why?" Penny shouted back.

"So I don't end up alone with a bloodthirsty killer!"

"Okay."

Eliot turned back to Alice with a broad smile, arms outflung as if he expected her to rush into his arms. "Problem solved. Now c'mon, Grumpy. Tell me I'm handsome!"

An outside observer might find it odd to for someone to be so cheerful while perched on the brink of prostitution, but to Eliot? Every step that took him closer to Q was worth celebrating.

And as long as one was celebrating? One might as well have fantastic clothes.

Three days later Penny23 wandered around the ballroom carrying a tray of champagne in a tuxedo, keeping an eye on Eliot as much as possible.

Eliot, meanwhile, worked the room. Within an hour he'd spotted four likely closet cases. The ones most likely to be lonely, want sex on the sly, and prefer the guaranteed confidentiality of a paid escort.

Not that he wasn't capable of  _pretending_ to find someone attractive, but if possible he'd prefer to land a client he didn't find completely repulsive.

_So that moves Mr. Weird Smell and Mr. Huge Nose to the bottom of my stack of candidates._

All the vapid conversations were starting to make his head hurt.

_Time to get serious and zero in on my best option._

The guy who kept returning all his stealthy glances. The fifty-something guy going for a 'silver fox' type of look and  _almost_ pulling it off.

He drew the man into a conversation off to the side of his small circle of shiny, gold-and-silver bejeweled friends, and slowly guided them further and further away from the main group until he and Almost SilverFox were entrenched in their own private conversation.

Finally, after what felt like hours of subliminal flirting, Eliot felt confident enough to up the stakes. This guy was nervous. All flummoxed and stutter-y every time El paid him a compliment, and  _clearly_ didn't mind El leaning into his personal space every now and then.

Just barely beyond the range of physical contact.

Only for fleeting seconds at a time, though. He did need the man pick up on his intentions, but very much _did not_  want to draw attention from the whole ballroom.

_Bigger moves. Bigger moves SOON._

"Um, I uh . . . I like your shoes," said Almost SilverFox.

Eliot shot him a lopsided grin that  _oozed_ 'flirt.' "I'm throwing you my best material here and you're paying attention to my  _shoes?"_ He purred. "I must be having an off night."

Both of them were speaking so quietly that even those standing within arm's reach wouldn't hear them over the sound of ambient chatter and violin music.

"Wh, I . . ." the man cleared his throat. "You're . . . not having an off night. Not at all."

"Good. Y'know I just realized I never got your name."

"Cr-Craig. Craig Conner."

"Ian," said Eliot as they shook hands, and he moved close to whisper in Craig's ear. "And don't take it personally, but I don't give my last name to clients."

He found the shocked-not-shocked look on Craig's face almost endearing.

"Clients?"

"Mmhm," El nodded, leaning back so as not to appear to  _intimate._ "This is the part where you ask me how much."

Craig's mouth opened and closed a few times, but only sounds came out.

 _Is it possible he's REALLY never done this before?_ Eliot wondered.  _Is it possible I found the one Rich Prick who's never bought a human?_

"How . . . how much?" Craig finally asked under his breath. El could barely hear the words.

"I'm normally ten thousand for a week, but I think you're cute, so . . . let's call it eight thousand, yeah?" Another tactic to lock down the deal. Flattery. Make him feel desired to some extent.

"Ten thousand?" The man repeated. "Is that a . . . a normal, um . . . asking price?"

"Honey you just paid  _fifteen_ thousand for overcooked chicken and bland risotto." Eliot chuckled.

"It was bland, wasn't it?"

Eliot didn't answer the question. Just maintained steady eye contact through a long silence.

"Eight thousand and I'm yours for a week. And I promise I'm _a lot_ more fun than a single plate of mediocre food."

The man reached into his inside coat pocket while taking carefully measured breaths, a slight trace of sweat beading on his forehead.

For a moment Eliot was afraid the guy might actually blow a blood vessel and fall over dead.  _Or is he going for nitro pills? Is this a heart attack? Have I actually killed a man with sexy?_

Instead of a bottle of pills, Craig withdrew a card. "I keep a penthouse apartment downtown. Eightieth floor. I'll um . . . I'll text the doorman and let him know to expect you, Ian."

 _A card,_ Eliot marveled.  _An actual card. Name, address, phone number . . . how people exchanged their information before the internet ruined romance_. He wasn't sure if it was pretentious or classic.

"I'll be there." Eliot assured him. "You're so nervous! Let's get you a glass of champagne to mellow out, okay?"

Penny23 had been hovering nearby since it became clear who El was working on, and he came over when summoned. "Are we having a good time, gentlemen?" He asked as Craig selected a flute and took a sip.

"Very much so. How about you?" Eliot asked. "Are you good?"

"Absolutely," Penny replied with a smile and nod. "Everything is  _all good."_

Eliot spent the next several days finding out that Craig Conner was a sweet and deeply lonely person. That he wanted more than anything for a man to lavish with attention. To care for and protect. And he treated Eliot a thousand times better than half the men El had fucked or dated.

At some point in this mission to save his dead love, El realized he'd all but forgotten that, with or without Q,  _he_ was still a person. Alive and capable of some measure of joy. Someone who could give and receive affection.

And remembering that felt  _nice._ From then on his contract with Craig felt less like an unseemly necessity and more like self care.

"Hey," he whispered on their third night together just as Craig was drifting off to sleep. "Hey, Craig? Can you open your eyes? I need to tell you something."

"What is it?" Craig asked with a look of genuine, sleepy concern.

El smiled softly. "My name is Eliot Waugh."

 

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: Eliot confides in Craig, jumps out of a plane, and continues to get by with a little help from his friends . . . ]


	5. Friends, Lovers, And Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot confides in Craig, jumps out of a plane, and continues to get by with a little help from his friends . . .

The night El told Craig Conner his real name, he also resolved to tell the man as few lies as possible. Just out of principle. Some truths would have to be omitted or  _tweaked_ a bit, but as close as he could stay to genuine truth? He resolved to do his best.

Which got a bit tricky on night five.

They were sitting in bed enjoying possibly the best wine Eliot had ever tasted, paired with an assortment of cheeses and whatnot laid out on a TV tray perched on the bed between them.

For all his wealth and excess, Craig wasn't the type to go for unnecessary fuss. No need for fine china or servants standing in wait to tend to their demands.

 _I wish I could tell him I used to be Royalty,_ El failed to mute a quiet giggle at the thought.  _Servants at my beck and call, my own fucking Navy . . ._

"Y'know I have to say, Craig, I did not expect to spend this week getting so  _spoiled."_

Craig grinned, happy to make someone happy. "You like the wine, I take it?"

"Very much," Eliot nodded with profound enthusiasm. "I may never be able to drink two-buck-chuck again."

"Hey! Two buck chuck is perfectly decent wine!"

"You've had two buck chuck?" El side-eyed his bedmate. "I'm not sure I believe you've ever stood within ten feet of a cheap wine."

Craig threw his head back with a laugh that filled the room. "Well-well I-I have!" he managed to choke out the words through ongoing laughter. "Oooooh goodness. You are magnificent company, Eliot. And I know I've said it before but thank you so much, again, for telling me your real name. I imagine that sort of thing could be risky in your line of work, and I appreciate the gesture."

Meanwhile, Eliot appreciated that Craig didn't skirt around the topic of his 'profession' like it was some kind of awful disease. Or like it made him lesser than. Or a toy. "What about you?" He teased. "Am I  _really_ in bed with a Craig Conner?"

"You are," Craig assured him before taking a sip of wine. "No secret identity for me."

Eliot slid around the tv tray to scoot closer to him. "So you don't walk around with  _two_ name-and-number cards in your pocket? One for Real People, one for hookers?"

"You are a 'Real People,'" Craig insisted, stroking El's face with one hand. "If anyone ever tells you different, let me know and I'll . . . ruin their damn life."

That promise won him a loud giggle-snort, as Eliot could hardly imagine Craig being mean to  _anyone_.

"Much appreciated," El said with a smile, clinking his wine glass with Craig's. "To ruining lives for people who matter!"

They clinked glasses again.

"For people who keep things interesting!" Craig added. "And fun!"

_Clink._

"For people we fucking  _like!"_ El carried on the theme. "And people we like to fuck," he added with a playful glint in his eye. They'd already had a fairly active evening, but Eliot was half inclined to go again after they finished their wine and cheese snack.

He flashed back to the charity dinner, when he thought Craig was only  _almost_ pulling off the SilverFox look.   _No, I was nuts. He's absolutely pulling it off . . . weird how getting to know someone can make them look more or less attractive depending on character. You'd think 'attractive' would be a set opinion._

He was going to comment on the observation when he suddenly noticed that Craig's expression had changed. He seemed somber. "Did I say something wrong?"

"Hm? Oh-no." Craig assured him "Nonono, not at all. I was just thinking . . ." he started fiddling with the sleeve of Eliot's robe. "I pay for this apartment year round and I only use it maybe eight or nine weeks out of the year. You . . . you could, um . . . stay here. If you wanted."

Eliot's jaw dropped.

"I'd still pay you for this week, obviously! A deal's a deal, but after that . . . if, if you, maybe-I mean, I wouldn't be going out any extra expense, and I'd always give you a week or so heads up if I was coming to town. And if you're concerned about losing independence, or me . . . making demands? Don't worry. I would not interfere in your personal life, or dictate 'rules.' Nothing like that." He shrugged. "But the apartment is just  _sitting here_ and someone really  _should_ be around to enjoy the incredible view."

"It is an amazing view," El said softly, wondering how to phrase a rejection so it wouldn't sound so . . . reject-y.

But Craig wasn't an idiot. He picked up on the meaning of Eliot's worried inflection. "It-it's okay, I shouldn't have even-it was a stupid thing to ask, I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry!" Eliot insisted, setting both of their wine glasses on the bedside table so he could hold both of Craig's hands. "It wasn't stupid at all, it's a lovely offer. And in a different universe you have no idea how fast I'd say yes. But in this life . . ." he hesitated for a beat, wondering if it was a good idea to reveal  _more_ personal information. "In this life, I have someone that I-"

Craig cut him off with a rueful, self-deprecating chuckle. "God, I didn't even think of that!  _Of course_ you have someone!"

"There's that, and honestly, Craig? You deserve so much better than a Kept Man shacked up in your apartment. You should have every gay man in New York clamoring for your fucking attention."

"Wow," the man breathed, tension somewhat lifted. "I wouldn't even know what to do with that much attention!"

"Well you deserve it," El said. "Dating is fun as hell, and falling in love is  _amazing."_

"Hm." A slight crease appeared on Craig's forehead. "And your boyfriend? He doesn't mind what you do for a living?"

 _Okay, how to phrase this? . . ._ "We don't really talk about it."  _Technically true._

"Well the next time you see him, you can go ahead and tell him that a globe trotting multi-billionaire is wildly jealous of him."

" _Multi?"_ Eliot asked, eyebrows raised, suddenly wondering why they were in a New York penthouse and not an extravagant palace somewhere in Europe.

Again Craig seemed to understand the cause of Eliot's reaction.

"Yes, I live far,  _far_ beneath my means. And I do it so I can afford to throw huge amounts of money at literally any cause I find worthy. I mean, I'm not above the Rich Asshole shit like owning jets and boats and summer homes, but I also help fund relief and education efforts around the world. And as for here at home? I'm primarily involved in providing new textbooks and building repairs to low income schools, and lobbying against for-profit prisons."

"That is . . . a lot."

Craig shrugged. "I know the vapid airheads amongst us get all the attention, 'cause they're frankly  _impossible_ to miss, but a hell of a lot of my peers do work hard to make sure our money does good things in the world."

"You're amazing," said Eliot. "There's just one thing I . . . with all that power and influence, it's not like anyone's gonna beat you up in the street for coming out. Why not just . . . take the leap?" In light of all Craig's advantages in life, El truly didn't understand the self-imposed solitude.

His posture slumped and he shook his head slowly. "Beaten in the street? No. But there are parts of the world where they'd  _literally_ stop doing business with me, stop accepting my donations, if they knew I was gay. We're talking about AIDS education and prevention, literacy programs for women and girls,so-on, and the only way I can make sure my money is accepted and gets where it needs to go is if I tolerate working with people whose beliefs on homosexuality are absolutely disgusting."

Eliot mulled it over. "I guess I can see the inner conflict there. Still though . . ."

"I know," Craig nodded. "And it is something I think about. Consider off and on. It might happen someday. Probably when I'm old."

"I'll keep my fingers crossed," Eliot said with a warm, sympathetic smile. "And I will  _personally_ throw your Coming Out party, don't you dare let anyone else plan it!"

"Perish the thought," Craig replied as he retrieved their wine glasses. "So," he cleared his throat. "Now that you've gotten a little glimpse into  _my world,_ would you . . . would you mind if I pried into yours a bit?"

_Tread carefully, Eliot._

. . .  _still, fair is fair. You did butt into his business . . ._

"Shoot."

"Okay." Craig cleared his throat again, tracing a thumb along the rim of his wine glass. "I don't mean to imply you're a fake at all, but I do sense some kind of big weight underneath all this carefree banter. And if talking about it with someone could . . . maybe help? I'm more than willing to listen."

_Tread VERY carefully . . ._

"Big weight. Yes, there's a weight. The, um, the man I love is . . . in sort of a . . . health crisis at the moment."

Craig reacted as if he'd just been told the building was coming down in three seconds. "Then there is no discussion here, Eliot, money gets specialists in rooms with patients, sad but true. So whatever he needs, I'm footing the bill!"

"It isn't-"

"You said  _crisis!"_ Craig rose from the bed, once again setting their wine glasses on the nightstand and looking as close to angry as El had ever seen him. "That's a big damn word! So fill me in on the details and I'll start making calls right now!"

"God, you really are a fantastic human," Eliot mused wistfully, wishing it were that simple. "But it's . . . conventional medicine can't fix his problem."

Craig returned to the bed, looking at El with utter disbelief. "Then experimental treatments? Obscure theories? There has to be someone in the world with a way to . . ."

"There isn't," Eliot sighed. "It's all down to me."

"How is that even possible?" The man asked.

He could tell Craig was confused and upset by El's seeming unwillingness to move mountains in order to save his  _supposed_ Great Love.

 _He won't stop worrying about it,_ El realized.  _He's not the kind of person who can brush disasters aside. He's a helper . . ._

And in that fraught moment Eliot made a choice.

To violate perhaps the most sacred unspoken rule amongst Magicians (aside from  _Don't try to raise the dead, you moron.)_

He closed his eyes took several deep breaths. Upon opening his eyes, he held Craig in a resolute stare. "Okay. This is against the rules in a huge way,but I'm going to  _show you_  the reason why money won't help."

Craig was at a loss for words.

"But first I need you to promise me you won't panic. I'm not dangerous, and I won't hurt you. Just keep that in mind."

"Uh . . ." Craig gave a stilted nod, more puzzled by the second.

"Look at our wine glasses."

Craig did as he was told.

With physical magic being his discipline, Eliot could float the glasses as easy as breathing.

"JESUS!" Craig yelped, leaping off the bed.

Not an unexpected reaction.

Eliot continued to go through hand movements to send the glasses this way and that. Letting the wine rise up and dance, then return home to their glasses without spilling a drop. While doing so, he spoke to Craig in a calm, even voice.

"What you're seeing right now is Magic. Magic is real, and Magicians are  _not_ supposed to show this shit to non-Magicians. I'm only showing  _you_ because I need you to understand that Quentin's problem is magic thing. I think I might have a way to cure him, but there's only one ingredient in the spell I have to buy with actual cash."

"F-for, for," Craig stammered, moving closer to the still-floating glasses. "For eight thousand dollars?" He guessed.

"Mmhm," El nodded. "It's a motherfucker of spellcraft, it'll take days of nonstop work, and I need to buy . . . I guess you'd call it 'magical fuel' to have even half a chance at success."

"Sounds dangerous," Craig rasped, still shocked as Eliot let the glasses settle back to the nightstand.

"It is," Eliot whispered, once again taking Craig's shaking hands. "And that's the weight I've been carrying."

"Holy shit," the stunned man closed his eyes. "Holy.  _Shit . . ."_

"I know it's a lot to absorb," said Eliot. "But you've been so kind, and thoughtful, I didn't want you to think the problem was me not  _letting you_ help. You just simply  _can't."_ Eliot then fell silent and let Craig settle into a whole new understanding of reality.

Over the next ten minutes his hands slowly stopped shaking, and his breathing returned to normal. Most importantly, he made direct eye contact with Eliot, and showed no sign of fear or suspicion.

"That is a  _huge_ weight, Eliot. So . . . I guess the closest I can get to helping you is . . . to show you what _I do_  when I feel like the stress of everything might break me."

"Do tell," Eliot said, feeling deeply grateful that Craig hadn't run from the room screaming like a crazy person, or thrown himself off the balcony in blind terror.

"Have you ever been skydiving?"

"No," El breathed with a broad smile, glad for the return to lighter topics. "But it is on my bucket list."

"How about we cross it off your list tomorrow?" Craig put an arm around Eliot's midsection. "I've done all the training and whatnot, so as long as you're belted to me you're allowed to jump on your first time up-and it's okay to change your mind at the last minute," Craig tacked on quickly. "Happens all the time, and it's fine. But oooooooh," he sighed, "Eliot, it is the  _opposite_ of weight. There's nothing like it."

Eliot went to sleep that night excited but nervous.

The next day he  _didn't_ chicken out at the last second. Secured to Craig, they jumped, and Craig was right.

The ground and all its details seemed so small.

 _Everything_ seemed so small.

For a few minutes everything dropped away, and it was like death didn't even exist.

The moment they hit ground, the first words out of Eliot's mouth were, "Can we go again?"

They spent hours going up. Jumping, and jumping, and jumping.

Craig drew the line at six, citing the dangers of too much adrenaline hiding symptoms of exhaustion. "It's one of the first things they warn you about when you take the class," he said.

Eliot didn't argue even though he felt like he could jump a dozen more times.

On the afternoon of their final day together, they stood on the balcony watching the early hints of sunset bleed over the horizon.

"Well," Craig sighed, breathing in the still warm air. "Might as well rip off the bandaid, I guess." He withdrew from his back pocket a tight roll of exactly eighty $100 dollar bills, secured with a rubber band. "I won't be offended if you count it," He assured Eliot.

"No need." El shook his head.

"So, now that the money's officially handed over," Craig glanced all around their surroundings as he spoke, posture broadcasting nervousness, "and there's no need for bullshit-not that I think you'd lie to me, I just didn't want to ask this question until . . . well, until there was no reason to."

"Ask me anything," said Eliot, trying to sound casual even as his guts tightened with anxiety.  _Please don't ask if I love you, please don't ask if I love you, please don't ask if I love you . . ._

"Are we  _really_ friends?"

Eliot nearly fell into Craig's arms with pure relief. It was the perfect question to end on.

"We are absolutely friends! I honestly didn't know how  _worn out_ I was before this last week with you, and surviving my massive fucking longshot of a spell will take every ounce of energy I've got." He rested his forehead against Craig's. "This time away from everything to . . . recharge, or whatever? . . . It might be exactly the thing I needed to pull me through."

"You alive and Quentin cured?" Craig mused with a gentle smile.

"Me alive and Quentin cured."

Craig stepped away and looked him over, clearly trying not to tear up. "I'm never gonna meet anyone else like you, am I?"

"I hope not!" Eliot replied with his all but  _trademarked_ attitude. "I like to think of myself as an original."

Craig grinned and laughed. The sound of it a bit forced, but he didn't want their time together to end on a maudlin note. "I have a towncar waiting. I'll walk you down."

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: Eliot buys his bone dust, then goes searching for actual bones. Specifically, the bones of someone who never knew love for or from anyone. Otherwise known as: the last thing he needs in order to attempt this crazy motherfucker of a spell he's dreamed up.]


	6. Material Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's success, there's betrayal, there's fighting, but everyone has the chance to express themselves.

_Finally something goes smoothly,_ thought Eliot as he slid his satchel under the bed. A satchel full of several small ziplock bags containing a total of 7.5 kilos of magically enhanced fairy-bone dust.

If not for its intended purpose, Eliot would feel gross about using something derived from the unwillingly amputated limbs, if not outright murder, of all those fairies. Karmically speaking, he figured he'd owe the universe in general some kind of good deed for using the stuff.

 _Or deeds,_ he thought.  _Probably deeds, plural._

Then his mind turned back to the mission. There was only one raw material left to gather, and finding it would require a world map, and a slight tweak on your basic locator spell. Easy magic.

 _There's gotta be a map somewhere in this apartment._ He figured.  _Nerds love maps and knowledge and shit, and Alice lives here, so . . . I really should stop being such a bitch to Alice at some point . . . after my resurrection spell works . . . well, after I get bored of rubbing it in her face that my resurrection spell worked._

He wondered if maybe this was a good time to take a quick nap and re-charge a bit.

_Yup, naptime._

If his week with Craig had taught him anything, it was that taking moments to unwind here and there could revitalize lost strength and improve clarity.

_Strength and clarity. I'll need TONS of both._

He laid down on top of the covers rather than beneath, not wanting to get  _too comfortable_ and sleep away the day.

But before he could drift away, the sound of arguing from the main room yanked his brain back into the world.

He could make out Kady and Alice's voices, as well as another woman and two men's voices he didn't recognize. He couldn't make out every word, but the argument seemed to be about battle plans and . . . some sort of ethical disagreement.

"You can't just lock him up like a prisoner!" He heard Alice insisting. "He's not even . . . I guess 'enlisted' in this fight, he's got his own thing right now!"

 _Huh?_ Eliot switched from overhearing to active listening as an uneasy feeling crept into his gut.

One of the male voices argued back, "Yeah, well that Banshee wasn't 'enlisted' either, but that didn't stop you from forcing her to scream and siphon off some'a  _her_ power!"

"She's done it twice, actually," the unknown female chimed in. "Stolen magic from a creature."

"That was . . . it was-" Alice fumbled.

"What?  _Your friends_ get special treatment just 'cause you're the fucking 'leaders' here?" Yelled one of the men.

"NO ONE is the leader in this!" Kady yelled back. "No 'Dictator' gets to randomly make decisions for everyone, if we start doing that shit we're no better than the Library!"

A beat of fraught silence passed.

Eliot sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling deeply tense.  _Shit, if this is about me . . ._

"So, I guess . . . I guess . . ." it was Kady's voice, and she didn't sound happy. "Alice, we have taken magic without permission a few times."

"THANK YOU!" The second male voice shouted. "So can we get on with it and do this, please?"

"NO!" Alice and Kady insisted in unison.

"We put it to a vote," Kady continued. "I move to cease all non-consensual additions to the battery unless the person or magical creature in question is like . . . a crazy murderer or something. Someone who fucking deserves it."

"Yes!" Alice agreed. "We hold a Global vote for an official policy one way or the other, and until it's decided, Eliot keeps his extra magic."

"What the fuck?!" At that point Eliot leapt off the bed and threw open his bedroom door. But when he tried to take more than a step beyond the threshold, he saw the wards trapping him inside briefly light up. "Are you  _shitting me_  with this?!" He yelled at the top of his lungs, completely outraged. "Let me out of here right fucking  _now!"_

Kady and Alice slumped and exchanged somewhat defeated glances.

Alice folded her arms and turned to their associates. "Can you guys just . . . give us a minute?"

"How do we know you won't let him out the second we leave the room?" The woman asked.

"Because we moved for a vote and I  _respect_ our system. I helped create it, remember?" Alice looked at El, her eyes swimming with both guilt and confidence at the same time. "And I'm sorry Eliot, but I can't undermine it no matter how I feel personally, it could weaken the whole rebellion. Give the Library a chance to destabilize what we've set up."

Kady nodded in agreement. "It's way too much to risk at this point. Too big." She turned to face their trio of cohorts. "You can trust us. Just start setting up the psychic links so we can get this fucking vote over with."

The three people Eliot didn't recognize exchanged worried looks, then seemed to decide they could trust  _his_ friends.

 _Oh good, they're idiots,_ he thought as they left the room.

His friends approached the open door.

"Okay, good speech," he whispered, "Jailbreak time! Quick, before they come back!"

Kady drew a deep breath while Alice stared at the door frame, unable to look Eliot in the eye.

"The thing is . . . you  _do_ have extra magic," Kady explained. "I guess the lingering Monster Juice or whatever. Denis picked up on it as soon as he stepped off the elevator."

"And I take it  _Denis_ is cool with stealing it from me?" Asked Eliot, getting angrier by the second. "You're seriously gonna let this shit happen?"

Kady shook her head. "Look, the most powerful Magicians in this fight, across the world, have been siphoning off small percentages of their power to feed a battery we're juicing up to use as a super-weapon when the time comes."

"Well, it sounds like they're doing it voluntarily," Eliot pointed out. "And I absolutely  _do not_ volunteer!" He turned his glare to Alice. "And you're the one who's been okay with straight up stealing Big Magic wherever you find it? Why am I less than shocked?"

Alice went on staring at the door frame, her mouth twitching as though she wanted to speak, but couldn't find the right words.

"Not just her!" Kady insisted. "A lot of us have been . . . less than ethical, I guess, when it comes to making the battery stronger. So that's  _everyone's_ fault. It's on all of us."

"So this vote will create an official policy," Alice muttered.

But Eliot was in no mood to sympathize with his captors, even if they were his friends. At that moment he was just trying to stave off blind panic.

He needed _all_ of his Magic, every fucking teaspoon of it, to get Q back.

He drew several deep breaths before speaking again, determined not to lose ground to his own urge to throw a loud and pointless fit. "Okay," he kept his voice low and even. "Say the vote  _doesn't_ go our way. Then you'll break me out, right?"

"I'm so sorry Eliot," Alice said again, shaking her head, finally brave enough to look him in the eyes. "But if we toss out a democratic vote the first time we don't like the result? It could jeopardize everything we've worked for. Bringing down the Library is just too important, I'm really  _really_ sorry!"

"I don't believe this!" He hissed, raking his fingers through his hair. "You're really gonna let them drain my power away?"

"Not all of it," Kady clarified. "Just a . . . a percentage."

El once again fixed his firestruck glare on Alice. "You know what I'm trying to do here! You  _know_ it's gonna take every drop of magic I have!"

At that moment he decided to give up trying to convince them into free him. It was clearly a waste of time and breath. Instead, he switched up the argument. "If they do decide to take my power, can you  _at least_ convince them to wait 'til after I've brought Q back and had some time to re-charge? I'll promise to submit willingly if they just let me do that."

"Time is exactly what we don't have," said Alice with a deep, mournful sigh, clearly hating every word.

"Besides," Kady added, "your  _insane plan_ is more likely to kill you than not, and then . . . well, then there'd be no power to drain."

"Un _fucking_ believable!" Eliot whispered, repeating the words over and over again, more to himself than the girls, as he covered his face with shaking hands.

Finally the fear and shock faded enough for him tolerate looking at the women he'd once trusted. "So you are gonna screw me over? 'Cause If your three buddies are any indication, I don't love my odds of things going my way, and, and . . ." He took one last desperate shot.. "I am your  _friend,_  and you're really gonna fuck up my best chance to save the love of my life?"

Alice scoffed despite the somber moment. "Y'know sometimes I can't tell if you want him back so bad because you love him  _so much,_  or if you just wanna be petty and make sure _I know_ I was the second choice."

"I can have two motives at once," El replied with a bitter sneer.

"Whatever, it doesn't matter," Kady interrupted the turf war over Quentin's unbeating heart. Not only was it the wrong time for such an argument, she just flat out didn't give a shit. "There is one loophole here, Eliot . . ."

He waited for her to continue. "Tick-tock, Kady!"

"The thing is, if you figure out a way to escape on your own, we are allowed to declare neutrality in hunting you down."

"That's right!" Alice spoke with a hopeful tone, not eager to see Eliot lose his magic regardless of their personal issues. "And both sides get a chance to argue their case before a vote is taken, so Kady and I can be really long-winded about it, which buys you time to think of a plan!"

Eliot cast aside their Quentin-war in an instant. "Okay. Any suggestions?"

"I'm gonna step outside and get some air," Kady announced with a transparent interest in plausible deniability. Whatever information Alice was about to share with their friend probably amounted to 'aiding the prisoner,' so if no one was around to hear the whispered conversation? It didn't happen.

Eliot dropped his voice to a thin whisper. "C'mon Alice, talk fast! Who knows when the trigger-happy trio is gonna come back!"

"Um . . . focus on magic that helps to control dreams, or control  _yourself_ in dreams. Then maybe . . . link that up with a psychic communication spell?"

"Who am I trying to reach?"

Again Alice wracked her brain. "Anyone who might help you. Like . . . I'm not sure, actually, Dean Fogg? Or Jules? She and Quentin knew each other most of their lives, that's a powerful bond."

"Powerful enough to break this 'code of ethics' you've got going?"

"It's different for them," Alice replied with a huff. "Kady and I may not be Leaders of the movement  _officially,_ but we are big figureheads. Especially Kady. Other people aren't, so any of them violating the rules won't do the same kind of damage as Kady or I breaking you out."

Eliot rolled his eyes. "You always were a fan of technicalities."

"Would you just stow your crap and listen? I'm being as helpful as I can!"

"Sorry," Eliot shook his head as if trying to rid his mind of pettier instincts. "Still listening, carry on."

"Okay, so . . . I don't know if you know this, but Penny's been bending over backward to support Jules any way he can to, well . . . not be  _forgiven_ exactly _,_ but make some kind of  _amends,_ a bit, for deciding to keep her human. Not his most shining moment. So odds are good he'd be willing to help you."

"God, that's gonna use up so much power!" El moaned. "I've been trying to go light on using it. Y'know like a singer saving their voice before a show?"

"That's actually smart," Alice said with a small frown, as if Eliot+Smart was an alien concept.

"Great, you're impressed. I can die happy now."  _(Do not. Be. A SMARTASS!)_  "Back on topic: got any other ideas?"

Alice chewed her lip for a moment, mentally checking to make sure she'd considered every angle. "I don't know if you hid it in your room or not, but if that 'fairy dust' is in there with you, then maybe snort a few rails and try to break through our wards? I know the hand gestures and key phrase to bring them down in a second, but-"

"You can't actually  _do the thing_ to bust me out." El nodded. "But advice is a nice cozy grey area."

"Mmhm." She grappled for anything else that might help him. All she could come up with was . . . "Just . . . wrack your brain, Eliot. Dig. Go through everything you remember from your Monster Time. He existed for literally  _ages,_ there might ancient magics? Lost magics? Or magic specific to the Gods that you could . . . I don't know, maybe tweak enough for a human to use?"

At that point the three strangers returned to the room, so Eliot fixed Alice with the most menacing glare he could summon and growled a vicious: "Fuck you! . . . And I guess fuck you three a little less, since you don't know me."

He slammed the door shut and immediately started sorting through every shred of knowledge and power the Monster had left with him.

Nothing helpful.

_Not in this situation._

A big bag of nothing helpful.

His general, free-range extra Monster Power alone had already proven useless against the wards. Of course it made sense that they'd be super strong badass wards, given that the whole reason they had him locked up in the first place was to steal his bulked-up power.

 _Use some of the fairy dust for an extra EXTRA boost and go buy more once I'm out?_ He thought hopefully . . .  _Craig would gladly throw more money at me if I asked._ For a brief second it seemed like his best bet.

But then he realized that a guy like Lenny, despite his disinterest in this whole quote-unquote 'bullshit rebellion thing' might not be willing to run the risk of pissing of an entire world full of magic-hungry so-called 'soldiers' by helping him out.

_Or they could've already raided his supply. That's not an unlikely possibility. And the stuff I bought . . . ? Once it goes up my nose it's gone forever._

He didn't rule out the possibility, but decided to keep looking for other options first.

Dream Magic would use up some power, but that would replenish itself in time. Even if it took a few weeks. Hell, even a month or two would be basically nothing, given that he'd already spent the better part of a year getting the plan in order.

 _Dream Magic it is. So who do I wanna reach?_ Penny being a Traveler and thus able to  _blip_ him right out of his cage made him the strongest choice.  _Then what's the best way to grab his attention?_

It didn't take long for Eliot to realize . . .

_Oh no . . . oh gods no . . ._

Q once told him that the frankly brilliant way he drew Penny40's attention when he was trapped in that Dream Prison was to get an annoying song stuck in the man's head.

_But he did it by passing the song along to other Dream Characters, and it took hours . . ._

He had no idea how long the vote would take, so time was a significant factor.

_I have to get an annoying song stuck in *my own head* for the strongest magic, and focus on Penny23 as hard as possible. And I should probably snort a *teeny* rail of fairy dust just for an extra bump. Let's call it Option A, go for it, and hope for the best!_

Now it was time to figure out the most important detail.

It couldn't just be an  _annoying_ song. It had to be one that would drive Penny nuts enough to bust into his dream and . . . be Penny.

_Taylor Swift did the trick for Q . . ._

But  _Swift_  wasn't on option for Eliot, as he'd somehow managed to avoid the vast and inexplicable reach of her lyrics. He only knew bits and pieces of a few songs.

_I need a whole song, and Penny has to fucking HATE IT!_

It didn't take much thinking before Eliot knew the right one.

He was sure of it.

" _Material Girl_  it is," he sighed aloud, bracing himself. From the towering archive of Madonna options, it felt like the one most likely to piss off Penny the fastest.

But just in case, he chose  _Like A Virgin_ as a backup.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: Penny23 is not having  _ANY FUN_ at all, Eliot is The Star Of The Show, and Margo designs dresses . . . ]


	7. Dreamers, Soldiers, and One Confused Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot knows how to get sh*t DONE. The plan, the song, driving Penny insane . . . he's got it all handled.

Eliot rifled through his notes.

Three pages of scribbled ideas based on what he could remember of Dream Magic, which it turned out was actually quite a bit.

If he went with the Dream Prison thing Jules used on Q that one time, he'd retain the most real-world memory, but given that it was an  _imprisonment spell,_ the content of his dream would be out of his control. Just anything most likely to terrify and disorient him.

So he filed it under the 'last resort' category and went on sorting through his memory for better options.

With A Dream  _Fantasy_ spell he'd maintain control of his own actions in the dream, and also choose the general framework, or 'plot points,' before going to sleep . . .

But once asleep his control over the specific flow of events, as well as how much real-world memory followed him in, would depended entirely on how he structured the math for timing out his spell's handwork and incantations.

The beats. The harmony.

Like music.

Dream Fantasy spells also allowed one to amend their own skill sets and talents. (Like say, if some boringass Magician in the middle of Nowhere Alaska wanted to fall asleep and be a Pirate for the night? Ta-da! Badass sword fighting skills! Because  _fantasy.)_ He figured that ability could be useful when it came to annoying Penny . . .

 _Material Girl needs to be sung over, and over, and over,_ he thought, focused on the minutiae of strategy . . .  _but what about surrounding details? . . ._

He decided a full-on stage show would bug the fuck out of his potential rescuer the fastest.

_Backup singers and everything . . ._

With the show featuring, of course,  _himself._

 _I should at least try to have some fun with it, I deserve a little fun!_ He pouted to an indifferent audience of no one.

 _Maybe if I cherry-pick the right Psychic Communication spell and patchwork it into the Dream Spell in just the right spots? So it, like . . . blends in?_ He mulled over the idea.  _Maybe then I could drill into Penny's head and start pulling his attention my way even before the musical number . . ._

El's mind buzzed through ideas at what felt like the speed of light. 

He knew Penny wouldn't bother astral-projecting into his dream until he was  _deeply_  pissed off.

_Especially not with this whole Thunderdome-ish, Magicians vs. Library thing going on._

But getting him to the point of stepping away from his role in the battle (whatever the fuck it was) would need to happen as fast as humanly possible. And that was going to be the biggest challenge.

_No sane resistance movement would waste a Traveler's talent on the low-level bullshit. They won't have him working magic any random soldier could manage . . ._

Which meant Penny couldn't just be  _annoyed_ by Eliot's dream _._ No. Whatever kind of show El sent flooding into the man's psychic mind needed to be distracting as  _fuck._  A genuine threat to the success of whatever Top Priority Mission he was almost certainly handling.

_It needs to be bad enough to force him away from the job and MAKE IT STOP!_

_. . . . What if I'm the world's most obnoxious, pretentious, wannabe "Creative Visionary" of all time in the dream? All fussy and melodramatic . . . he'd haaaaate that!_

And Penny showing up would break the dream spell's illusions, so no matter how much or how little real-world memory followed Eliot into the dream, it would be irrelevant. Either his traveler friend would show up to rescue him, at which point he'd remember reality, or the dream would simply run its course and he'd wake up.

_Just a normal dream. And I'd still be stuck in this goddamn room._

But reaching out to Penny truly was his only viable option, so he had to go with it.

Take the shot.

_Showtime._

He parsed through his notes and condensed it all into a coherent spellmap. Then gave it a final once-over before heading to the bedroom door.

He listened carefully to make sure either Alice or Kady was in the main room with at least one of the dickhead strangers before making his next move.

Within a few minutes he heard Alice and one of the men.

_Perfect._

"Attention people!" He demanded as the door flung open. "Since you assholes have me trapped in here and I'm probably going to end up having all the ancient magic my monster-buddy left me with fully goddamn  _amputated_ without my fucking permission, I figure you should at least do me the courtesy of a nice soothing dream in the meantime." He waved his papers in the air. "I even have a dream all sketched out out, I just need someone to check my math before I cast it."

The man scoffed. "Seriously? You're loaded to the tits with magic, shithead. Check your own math."

Eliot rolled his eyes, even though the man's reaction played right into his hands. "Right. Here's the thing, Captain Nosehair: having a lot of power isn't the same thing as doing  _spells._ Spell math isn't my strong suit, so I don't wanna get some stupid little detail wrong and end up stuck in a dream about watching grass grow."

He turned his focus to Alice with a stare cold enough to cause frostbite. "Don't think this makes us friends again, but you're a math genius. And I can either be awake and stewing in rage for the next . . . however many hours I have left before being brain-raped,  _or_ I can spend it asleep and surrounded by beautiful men  _literally_ created to please me. I'd rather enjoy a tiny sliver fun. And you owe me, Alice. You know it. So check. My fucking. Math."

"Fine," Alice sighed.

"Wait!" The man interjected just as Alice reached through their prison wards to take the papers from Eliot. "Give me those notes, I wanna see 'em first!"

"Be my guest," El shrugged. "Not like I can stop you."

Alice shot him a stealthy  _do you know what you're doing?_ Look.

He tried to send her a quick glance of  _'yes, it's all a plan'_ before her charming and cheerful cohort got close enough to notice their silent communication.

"See?" Eliot said as the guy snatched his papers away from Alice. "I told you. It really is just a fucking Fantasy Dream spell." He crossed his arms and fell casually against the doorframe. "Prison doesn't suit me, and sometimes a girl just wants to have fun. Hell, you can even  _cast_ the damn spell if you want."

"I think I'll do that!" Nosehair snapped.

"But don't try any tricks or I'll know it right away!" Alice cautioned with an almost theatrical stern look. A look juuuuuuust on the tipping edge of  _too much._

 _Perfect!_ Eliot thought, closing the door and settling himself on the bed while Nosehair went over the spellmap.  _Now when I disappear he'll get all the blame._

_Not Kady._

_Not Alice._

His goal wasn't  _only_ protecting the two women. He also hoped that being seen as a spectacular git who let Eliot break out right under his nose would throw off the man's confidence so much that he'd turn in a weak and fumbling speech when it came time for him argue  _in favor_ of allowing non-consensual Magic Siphons.

El did, after all, plan to join the fight after resurrecting Q. So the result of this vote did matter whether he managed to break free or not. And that meant Kady and Alice had to appear as far removed from helping him escape as possible.

Both women stood in favor of instituting an official No More Magic Theft policy, and that opinion alone would make them both natural suspects in aiding his escape. They had to go into the upcoming debate with maximum credibility.

 _So I set up this jackass to take the blame, and he steps right into the trap. HA! What I lack in academic skill, I make up for in tactical genius!_ Eliot couldn't help but wear a smug grin at the thought of his own cleverness.

He listened as Nosehair began the first incantation . . .

_Getting sleepy . . . getting sleepier . . . sleepier . . . sle-_

Eliot stood in the wings watching his performers rehearse, the music playing just loud enough for them to hear and stay on beat.

"Maxwell, if you bump into Kyle one more time, I'm giving your part to the understudy!" He barked. "And Steven, you keep mixing up the choreography. It's down three steps, arms out, pivot stage left, then down three more steps, arms  _down!"_

"Sorry Mr. Waugh," the man replied.

"Run it again, from the top."

Technically Eliot was in the show too, but since he already knew each step well enough to do it blindfolded, a stand-in took his part for most rehearsals. That way he was free to deal with other shit.

 _The shit of running a show . . ._ and w _here the FUCK is my new headset?!_ He wondered, more annoyed by the second.

A minute or so later the skinniest man on earth sprinted up to him, headset in hand.

"Here you go," he panted, trying to catch his breath.

"Grand. And we made sure this one  _works,_ right?" Asked Eliot, placing the thing on his head and adjusting mic. "Because the last two were busted old pieces of crap."

"This one works," The other man assured him. "I tested it myself."

"Thank you, Morris."

"It's Marvin."

He could tell the poor sharp-elbowed guy was quaking beneath his too-large t-shirt. "Oh, you poor thing," he cooed. "Look, I know I'm a raging bitch with no patience when it comes to doing live shows, but you have no idea how much goddamn information I've had to cram into my brain in a  _really_ short amount of time!"

"Sounds stressful, Sir."

"It is!" Eliot said with a deep, beleaguered sigh. "This is our final week of rehearsal, our troupe is doing  _four_ numbers _,_  the original stage manager quit last week so  _I_ stepped in. I'm the lead choreographer on our acts and my colleague is frankly under qualified-no, scratch that, Roland  _would be_ qualified if this was the '70s and everyone still worshiped Cabaret-not to piss on Fosse's genius, he  _was_ a genius, but can we say 'dated as fuck'? Because, yeah. Dated as fuck. And my vision  _demands_ 'now' choreography! 'NOW' Melvin! What doesn't Roland understand about that?!"

"Again, it's . . . it's Marvin, Sir."

"Right, of course," El shook his head, feeling the teensiest (rare) twinge of guilt. "I must be getting you mixed up with our prop manager."

"Her name is Molly."

"Shit! I'm disgusting, aren't I?" He groaned. "But who the fuck is Melvin?!  _Someone_ around here is a Melvin!"

"I'm . . . I'm not sure."

"Would it be dehumanizing of me to make everyone wear name tags? It would, wouldn't it? Anyhow Marv, On top of the whole choreographer issue, the lovely gentlemen running our control booth needs so much hand-holding I may as well do his job for him too-only I physically  _can't_ since I'll be _on stage!"_

"Sir, should I maybe bring you a nice soothing cup of tea?" Marvin suggested.

"A tea would be lovely," Eliot replied. "Thank you. Anything but peppermint. And in a thermos, if you don't mind. So it stays warm."

"Good  _Christ,_ El!" his best friend's voice sounded off behind him as Marvin scuttled away. "Why are you always such a goddamn  _Princess_  the week before opening night?"

He spun around to face her, waving away the criticism. "It's part of my process, Margo. Do we have wardrobe thoughts?"

"We do." Margo held out a sketch pad. "I still think it's dangerously late in the game to be redesigning our Madonna's wardrobe. Could blow up in your face," she fanned through pages looking for the right one. "Which would be fine my me if I didn't also have  _my name_ attached to this show."

"Oh come on, Don't be dramatic! I'm not reinventing the wheel," Eliot insisted. "Changing my back up dancers' vests to lavender sequin while hers stay in basic black was an easy switch, now we just have to take her dress from an  _exact_ Material Girl replica to something more . . . referential."

"Modern, but with a few nods to the source material, right," said Margo. "You've said it a million times. Okay, here," she found the right pages. "So the first thing, we bring up the hemline to the knee, we get rid of that giant bow in the back and make it a smaller bow tied at an angle on her side-either at the waist or the hip. And it could be sequined too if you want, to match your dancer's vests."

"Interesting idea . . ." Eliot chewed his lip. "And what's this other sketch?"

"This is actually my favorite," said Margo with a sly smile. "We tighten the skirt, give it a high slit, drop her neckline by an inch and add one strap, a twisted fabric slanted across the chest right to left with one small bow-or maybe two  _really small_ bows at the end if the strap, and a bigger bow up here at the shoulder. Not a stiff bow. Something lose, with movement."

"I love both of those ideas so much, how can I choose?!" He draped his arms around Margo's shoulders and gave her a long, affectionate squeeze. "You're too good at this. It makes my whole life harder."

Margo flipped her sketchbook shut and smiled up at her friend. "That's only because you don't have a  _real_ life outside the stage, sweetie."

"I'd have one if you didn't chase away all my boyfriends, precious darling," He shot back, while returning her warm smile.

"Hey, I liked that slouchy book nerd you were  _almost with_ for like a second!" Margo insisted. "Not my fault you sabotaged it. Jesus, that feels like forever ago, doesn't it?" She sighed. "What was his name again? Cody? Cameron?"

Eliot pondered the question. "Ummmmmm, I think it was . . . Q something." As soon as he said the words it was like a lighting bolt to the back of the brain. A sudden shock.

He couldn't dredge up a single mental image of this 'Q Something' person, but he knew in his gut that the man needed to be rescued from . . .

_From something. And . . . and it's all on me . . . and-_

Margo snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Hey! . . . where'd you go?" she asked. "And why do you suddenly look so worried?"

_. . . Penny Adiyodi can help me! I need to get here!_

"Penny Adiyodi!" Eliot cried out with deep urgency. "He needs to come to opening night! He  _needs to!"_

Margo frowned. "The theatre critic? Honey,  _everyone_ wants him at their show on opening night. No way is he gonna take a call from us, we're not famous enough. Yet." She reached up and gently stroked her friend's face. "But we're gonna get there someday, right?"

"No!" Eliot insisted. "No, he  _has to_ come! To this show! I need his help!" he could see Margo's look of confusion turning to actual  _worry_. "I-I mean, I need him here 'cause . . . because this show will  _clearly_  be so great it deserves his immediate attention!"

His friend opened her mouth as if to argue, but seemed to decide it wasn't worth the effort. "Fine," she threw her hands in the air. "I'll have the PAs start making calls. But don't hold your breath, okay?"

"I won't," Eliot lied before running onstage. "Lewis!" He called out to his stand-in. "You can head home, I'll take it from here. And Justin!" He said, switching on his headset. "Hey, Control Booth! Wake the fuck up, please. I want full volume on the music, full lighting plot, and I need perfect timing on those spot cues, got it?"

"Uh . . . y-yeah. I got it."

El didn't have time to give a shit whether or not Justin was smoking weed on the job again. All he could think about was saving Q. The guy he could barely remember.

"Attention everyone! I have decided we're going to get Penny Adiyodi here on opening night. We're going to fucking  _will him here._ Right into the front row, okay? We're gonna rehearse our asses off, and while we do, I want you all completely focused on just two things: making the show  _perfect,_ and summoning Mr. Adiyodi to this theatre. Like . . . like magic. Forget about your bills, debts, spouses, kids, pets, whatever. Every brain cell you have needs to fixate on Mr. Adiyodi seeing this show, got it? Great! Let's make it happen, people!"

Eliot had no clue why he was so sure the insane plan would work, but as he handed his headset to a stagehand and moved onto his starting mark, he looked like the definition of pure confidence.

_Penny Adiyodi is going to show up, and he WILL help me save Q. I know he will. Show up Penny, show up Penny, show up Penny . . ._

_Okay, lead in music, faux-Madonna and I spin toward each other, land in standard dance pose, I've got her left hand, her right arm is on my shoulder, then one foot slides toward downstage, we're pressed flush as hands pointing upstage rise. Our bodies tilt downstage a little, I go under her arm, step back and twirl her in, then dance her back to starting mark._

_She sings first lyric riiiiiight . . . PERFECT!_ he thought as she hit her cue exactly on point:

"Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me,

I think they're oka-ay,"

_Backup Dancers:_

"Okay!"

_She takes a step toward me, and I step toward her for my line:_

"But if they don't give me proper credit,"

_Both of us:_

"I just walk away-ay!"

_We slide around each other and switch spots so I'm surrounded by the lavender-vest guys and she's got the basic black. Now three side-steps down the stairs for:_

_Just her:_

"They can beg and they can plead but

theeey can't see the light,"

_Her Backup dancers, gathered around and leaning toward her:_

"That's right!"

_Now my turn:_

"'Cause the boy with the cold hard cash is-"

_Both of us:_

"always mister ri-ight."

As he swiveled around and pressed against the dancer stage left, he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and make sure she was doing the same with the  _correct_ backup dancer as well.

The urge was powerful, but at this point he just had to let go of stage managing and trust everyone to know their shit.

_So I can focus on Penny Adiyodi, Penny Adiyodi, Penny Adiyodi . . ._

_Both of us push away two advancing backup dancers, then choose and dance with another one, then we're dancing two steps up stairs and down three. Two up, down three, two up, down three, repeat, repeat, repeat while:_

_Both of us:_

"cause we are liiiiiiving in a material world,

and I am a material girl.

You know that we are living in in a material world,"

_Switch to the dancer standing behind us, arms locked for the lift/spin down the last three stairs:_

_Still both of us:_

"and I am a material girl!"

_Just me:_

"Some boys romance,

some boys slow dance,

that's all right with me.

If they can't raise my interest then-"

_Me and backup dancer while I lead, moving us stage right:_

"I have to let them be-e."

_Faux Madonna, same choreography moving stage left:_

_Just her:_

"Some boys try and some boys lie but

I don't let them play-ay,"

_Her and dance partner:_

"No way!"

_Just her:_

"Only boys who save their pennies

make my rainy day-ay!"

_Now we all sing, and please GOD let everyone hit their marks and cues! Fucking please!_

"Cause we are living in a material world,

and I am a material girl.

You know that we are living in in a material world,

and I am a material girl.

Living in a material world,

and I am a material girl . . ."

As planned, by then a few of the lavender vested men and black vested men had switched places. He and faux-Madonna collected little trinkets from them while gliding across stage in opposite directions as the song went on.

They re-joined one another at center stage, and once again danced together (while checking out and making flirty eye contact with their eager flock of backup dancers).

_Just Backup dancers:_

"Liv-ing in a material world.

Material!

Liv-ing in a material world,"

And on, and on.

_Penny needs to show up, Penny needs to show up, Penny NEEDS to show up!_

It ran through Eliot's mind on a ceaseless loop all the way through first rehearsal.

And second rehearsal.

And eighth rehearsal.

He and his troupe were midway through their 22nd iteration of the song when Penny  _finally_ came storming down the center isle.

"OKAY, I NEED YOU TO SHUT THIS SHIT DOWN  _RIGHT_   _THE FUCK NOW!"_  He bellowed.

For a split second El was shocked. But when he turned to face his dancers, they were all frozen in place. Perfect statues. And then he remembered exactly what was happening, and why.

"Penny!" He cried out, leaping off the stage and running toward the furious man. "Look, I'm sorry about all the torture, but I'm stuck in my room at the apartment, magical wards have me trapped, and if I don't escape there's a good chance I'll end up having a bunch of my leftover monster-magic stolen from me! I need that magic! I fucking  _have to_ escape, and you're my only ticket out. Please! Travel into my room, wake me up, and we'll go from there!"

"Rrrrrrrgh," Penny groaned, raking a hand through his hair. "Prisoner? For real?"

"Yes!" Eliot replied, quickly ascending from desperate to frantic.

"Wait, is that the reason I just got the psychic link-up for a global vote on an official Magic Siphoning policy?"

"YES!" Eliot yelled. "And if it doesn't get banned, I am turbo-fucked, Penny! And I don't know how much time I have to spare here, so . . ." he clasped his hands and quivered in Penny's general direction like a starving orphan boy.  _"Please? . . ."_

"FUCK! FINE!" Penny growled, gritting his teeth. "But you have no  _clue_ how serious shit's gotten out there, man, so I'm only doing this  _once,_ okay? Sorry, I know you're doin' it all for love and I respect the hell outta that, I'd do the same thing in your shoes, but there are entire  _worlds_ at stake here, so . . . y'get one." The man held up a single stubborn digit. "One favor."

"Thank you!" Eliot gasped, and the next thing he knew he was back in his bed, with a cranky Penny looming over him.

"Okay, where d'you wanna go?" he asked as El sat up and rose from the bed.

Eliot meant to reply immediately, but then a strange detail caught his attention and gave him pause. "Penny, why are your clothes all scorched? And . . . smoldering?"

"Oh," he sighed. "Turns out there's an  _actual Phoenix_ in Phoenix Arizona, and she's got intel for us. She also might donate a few magic feathers to the rebellion. But I gotta keep traveling in and out of proximity every time she sparks up. And . . . she combusts, like . . . often. Without warning. Which, I don't know if that's the usual deal, but-"

"Riveting story, Penny, but we need to leave now!"

"Right. Sorry. Where to?"

Eliot was stunned to suddenly realize he hadn't considered the 'where to' question.

"It's gotta be someplace close," Penny added. "I used up too much magic as it is just traveling here."

El grappled with a way to perhaps help them both. "I've got a ton of that fairy heroin stuff hidden under my bed, you could do a line and then you'd have-"

"That shit doesn't work on Travelers." He shrugged. "Maybe 'cause we're already magical creatures, I don't know. Just know I tried it a while back and got _nothing."_

 _Dammit! Well, I guess we're going someplace close then. So where to? . . . Where to?. . ._ "Oh!" Eliot took a card from his back pocket and handed it to Penny. "This address!"

He grabbed his satchel full of fairy dust, and off they went.

"Wooooooow," Penny breathed, staring out a large window when they popped in at their destination. "That's an  _amazing_ view!"

"Craig!" Eliot called out. "Craig, are you here?"

A handsome-ish man Penny didn't recognize bolted into the room, clearly shocked as his eyes darted between the two 'intruders' in his home.

"El?" The man gasped. "U-um, don't take this the wrong way, but h-how did you-"

"I teleported us in," Penny said with a wave. "Hi."

"Of course," Craig nodded. "Naturally."

Eliot only had a moment to feel relieved and amused before Penny's eyes blew wide.

"Duuuuuude," he said. "Yeah, you need to get outta town as fast as possible, man. Word just went out that you're missing. Most of us won't give a shit with everything else going on, but there is a small faction of radicals who think any Magician that  _hasn't_ joined the rebellion is a straight up traitor."

"Are you  _shitting me?!"_ Eliot yelped.

"I wish I was, but nah," Penny shook his head. "They're all idiots, obviously, but their magic game is  _tight,_ and they're gonna be out for blood."

Eliot groaned, sagging, amazed at how many things could go so right and  _so wrong_ at the same time.

"I swear I really would help," Penny assured him with a rueful shrug. "But that Phoenix has important intel, and it's takin' every scrap of magic I got to keep myself from burning to death every time she goes all flame-y. But seriously, I'm rooting for you." He gave Eliot's shoulder a gentle pat. "Good luck. And it was nice to meet you, Craig." he said with a quick smile before disappearing.

Eliot turned to his friend with a somewhat forced smile. "Hiiiiiii, Craaaaaig," he trilled. "It's nice to see you . . ." He paused for a response and got nothing. Just pursed lips and curious eyes. "Are you glad to see me?"

"Mmhm, mmhm." Craig replied. "I am happy. But in the last ten seconds I've compiled a _very large_  list of questions."

 

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: escapes, and bunnies, and bones, oh my!]


	8. Think Outside the Portal, Eliot!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A daring escape, unloved bones; and a beautiful, glowing night.

Craig watched as Eliot rushed to the sliding balcony window, held his thumbs and index fingers together in a rectangular shape, and used them as one would a telescope, scanning their surroundings. Then he pushed open the glass door and stepped out for a more complete view of the city, where he continued to. . . ' _search'_ was Craig's best bet.

"Are we looking for something?" The befuddled billionaire asked, following Eliot onto the balcony and feeling more like a clueless schoolboy than he had in several decades.  _I didn't miss this feeling._

"Tracker spells," his relatively new friend explained. "Think 'bloodhound,' but with magic. We're dealing with fanatics here Craig, and all they need to hunt me down is my name and a picture."

"Do you think they're really as, um, _angry_  as that friend of yours said?"

"That was Penny," said Eliot. "And yes. I mean there is the off chance they'll be too busy frothing over some other stupid shit to-nope." The man shook his head. "Scratch that. So much for one  _teaspoon_ of good luck, that dream is dead! They are hunting. One . . . two . . . three . . . four," he counted each glowing thread as they webbed their way through and around skyscrapers.  _"Fuck!_ There's four someones at minimum."

"How can you tell?" Again Craig felt overtaken by 'clueless schoolboy' brain.  _How come, mommy? But how come? But why? But why? But why?_

El sighed. "You can't see them, but there are, right now, right this goddamn second, three webs of green light about six or seven blocks away searching every street and building one by one, inside and out, and one more waaaaay out there in the distance. They do all seem to be heading away from us, so I guess for now that'll have to count as  _luck!"_ Eliot spat out the word like it was coated in something unspeakably sour. "I can cloak myself pretty fast, but then we need to get the fuck  _gone!"_

"We?" Craig asked, wearing a slight frown. Until Eliot spoke those words, he'd assumed he was only a peripheral player in all this dangerous Magician Drama. Hardly more than an audience member.

"Yes," Eliot nodded. "You're coming with me Craig, and I won't take no for an answer. Cloaking now won't erase my path up to this point, okay? And if my trail ends in this exact apartment-"

"Aaaaaaah," Craig mused, beginning to see the rationale at work.

"Exactly. If they find this place it'll be easy as all shit to learn your name. And I'm guessing, Magician or not, they'll see you as an evil collaborator and act accordingly. Rrrrgh," El shook his head violently as they both stepped back into the apartment. "We may both be screwed anyway, but as it is? You're safer staying close to someone with magic."

"I trust you," his friend said quietly with an earnest gaze. "But your fr-Penny-he did also say those people have a  _'tight'_  magic game. There must be ways of breaking through a magical cloak, right?" Craig clung tight to his better senses, determined not to let the looming threat of unfamiliar danger knock him into panic.

"Exactly!" Eliot threw up his arms. "So we may still be turbo-fucked no matter where we go in the city! God _damnit!_  Christ! If one thing,just  _one thing_ could go smoothly, I'd-I'm so sorry Craig, I should never have involved you in-"

"Breathe," Craig interrupted, placing his hands on Eliot's arms with a firm squeeze. "You need to breathe, and keep a level head."

"I know." Eliot's shoulders sagged as his worried eyes wandered the cityscape. "But we need to get far, far away. Like, 'out of New York' far. And fast." He drew and released a shaky breath. "And the fastest way I can accomplish that is . . .  _ugh. . ._ to build a portal."

Craig watched Eliot do some sort slow, complex hand movement and mutter a phrase.

"Okay I'm cloaked," he nodded. "Cross your fingers and pray it takes that pack of pissed off hyenas a long fucking time to bust through it!"

Craig followed behind Eliot as he wandered around the room, glancing all all about.

"A long while?" He asked ponderously, trying to think like a Magician. "I've read enough fiction to understand the concept of a portal. Can't you make it take us anywhere?"

Eliot let out an exasperated sigh, still facing away from him. "Yes, but first I need to  _build_ the thing, and I suck at that, so it's gonna take time! . . . Too bad you aren't a Magician too," he added under his breath. "Then this might be easier."

Not that Craig didn't agree, but the comment spoken aloud still stung a little bit. He gave Eliot plenty of room as the man chose a full length mirror facing the opposite hallway, and began pacing back and forth in front of it in tight semicircles, this time moving his hands about in a far more elaborate series of motions than he'd done for the cloaking spell.

 _Cloaking spell._ Craig thought. _My life now involves cloaking spells._ "Um . . . what is 'a while'?" he asked. "Longer than twenty minutes?"

"Probably!" El snapped, spinning around to face him. "And I adore you, I really do, but I need this to be a quiet time, okay? I have to focus!"

"Understood," Craig replied with a stiff nod.

The room fell silent as Eliot struggled to cast the spell, several times returning to the first series of movements with a frustrated huff.

Against orders, Craig broke his silence. "I only ask because it would take me less than twenty minutes to have a chopper meet us on the roof."

Eliot froze, feeling somewhat like a huge jackass. "Ah. That is, um . . . a much better idea. How far away can your helicopter get us?"

"At least to the hanger where I keep a selection of planes," Craig replied with a nonchalant shrug.

" _Selection_ of planes?" El raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

" _Small_  selection," the other man replied. "It's not like-wait," he stopped himself from launching into an unnecessary justification for the extravagance, "it's not important. We're going to the hanger and we're leaving right now!" He declared. "I'll make the call from the elevator, let's go!" He took Eliot's arm and sprinted toward the door.

El let himself be dragged along for a few seconds, but then halted suddenly, jerking Craig to a stop as well. "There was a globe on that giant desk in your study, right? Is it still there?"

"Uh . . . of course . . ." it was statement, but the man's tone carried the tinge of a question.  _(But why mommy, but why, how come, how come, how come?)_

"Be right back!" Eliot dashed away and returned in a hardly a blink carrying the globe, which was a tad bigger than a basketball. "Okay, let's go!"

They raced down the hallway as Craig pressed five on his speed dial.

Once they were in the air, and Manhattan was only a distant silhouette, Eliot did another quick scan, relieved to find not a hint of tracking spells. Neither around the skyscrapers, nor creeping out of the city.

They landed at the same airfield Craig had taken him to for their day of skydiving. When they disembarked Craig had a brief conversation with the pilot, and off he flew.

"Wait," El shouted over the deafening whir of a propeller, "if he's leaving, who's gonna fly us out of here? Do you just pay pilots to loiter around all day?"

"There's a small staff in that little office building!" Craig yelled back, pointing to a beige portable about fifty yards away. "I contract most of my planes out for this and that, so there's always a few pilots onhand. Between flying and general aircraft maintenance they stay busy. None of them are flying us today, though." He grinned. "I am."

By then chopper was far enough away for him to stop shouting.

He continued, "I don't keep any of my serious long-rangers here, but if we do need to go farther than 1700 miles, I can still make it happen. I'll just patchwork together a few Cessna rentals or something. It's totally doable."

"You have a pilot's-" Eliot stopped himself before finishing the absurd question. "Of course you have a pilot's license. And you've probably done brain surgery too, right? And walked on the moon?"

"NASA won't let me talk about that." Craig quipped with a straight face. "I signed a contract. So where are we going?"

"That is where this guy comes in," said Eliot, spinning the globe he'd taken from the penthouse. "I have to do a quick locator spell, _then_  I'll know where we're going."

"Who are we looking for?" his friend asked as they stepped into the hanger.

"Not sure yet," El replied, heading toward a large fold-out table against the west wall. "I need to find the bones of a man who longed for love but never got it from anyone, ever in his life."

"Oh." Craig wasn't sure how to respond to such a concept. True, his fifty one years in the closet were quite a burden to carry, but at least he could still list off many, many people who loved him.

"Anyhow, for the sake of simplicity let's hope there's a candidate within range of a single flight." Eliot said as his gaze wandered the planes surrounding him, the largest of which looked like maybe a six seater.  _These things must be the equivalent of cheap plastic toys in Billionaire World._

Craig stood by his friend's side as the man did another quick spell, and tiny dots of light appeared at several dozen points around the globe.

"Hm," El mused. "Honestly, I was expecting to see a lot more."

Craig shrugged. "I suppose at least  _one person_ loves most of us at some point. Parents, family, etcetera."

"Noooooot my parents," El muttered without taking his focus off the globe. "Okay, here," he pointed to the dot nearest New York and hunched down to read the tiny print. "Oklahoma. Is that within range of . . . one of these?"

"Ah! Yes!" Craig chipped with obvious joy. "We can take Betsy, she's my favorite! I named her after my best friend!"

"Betsy it is then." Eliot placed his finger on the dot in Oklahoma and closed his eyes.

By then Craig had enough experience with spells to know it was time to keep quiet and let the man focus.  _Proper spell etiquette,_ he thought with an inward chuckle _. One must observe manners._

"Okaaaaaaay," Eliot drawled the word. "So our guy is in a really small down, his gravesite is marked Unknown Man . . . his remains were found in a field, pretty decomposed, aaaaaannnnnd . . . when he couldn't be identified the townsfolk sort of adopted him. Raised money for a casket and tombstone. He's buried in theeee . . . Hhhhhoneyfield Springs Cemetery." He finished and turned to Craig with triumphant flourish. "It's your show now, baby! Get us there!"

His friend looked up the nearest airfield and they were on their way in under an hour, Eliot riding shotgun.

Just for caution's sake, as they ascended Eliot did one last careful scan of the distant cityscape and ground below. "I think we're in the clear," he said. "I don't see the search webs anymore, and by now they'd have expanded way beyond the city. If I was still being hunted, those green threads would be slithering all over."

Craig shook his head and giggled quietly.

"Is something funny? You do realize we just escaped mortal danger, right?"

"I  _do_  realize!" Craig replied with another tiny giggle. "This morning I was sipping coffee and reading a book like a normal man, and now I've fled my luxurious New York apartment to escape the Magical Bad Guys hunting us,  _and_ flying us in my personal airplane to a remote location so you can carry out an important magical mission! In less than five hours my life has gone from normal to James Bond by way of Harry Potter!"

Eliot doubled over as much as the small space would allow, laughing so hard he ended up struggling to breathe. "Oh  _shit!"_ He wheezed."Ooooooh wow, that is fucking  _hilarious!_  . . . And also, I insist we make that your Halloween costume this year!"

"Yeah?" Craig asked while slowly adjusting their altitude in search of less choppy air.

"Mmhm," El gave a resolute nod. "Absolutely. We'll draw a little lightning bolt on your forehead, put you in a dashing tuxedo, and give you a Walther PPK."

"Walth-"

"It's James Bond's gun," Eliot explained.

"I know that," said Craig. "I'm just surprised  _you_ know that. You don't strike me as much of a James Bond fan."

El gave him a look of utter disbelief. "Are we talking about the same James Bond? Because I'm talking about the  _impossibly_  sexy, sophisticated man who travels all over the world, drives the best cars, plays with all the coolest toys on someone else's dime, gets laid whenever he wants, and never faces lasting consequences for anything he does, no matter how stupid or dangerous.  _That Bond."_

"Ah." Craig pursed his lips. "Well, when you put it that way-"

"Exactly! If the motherfucker ever once sucked a dick he'd by my aspirational role model!"

Both men spent the next several minutes laughing their asses off, then the rest of the flight slowly ticking items off of Craig's Very Long List Of Questions.

Eliot also decided to loop him in on details he didn't know to ask about.

There's a grad school for Magicians called Brakebills.

Solo Magicians are called Hedges.

Teleportation, portals, magical creatures, etc? Yup, all real. Yes, even werewolves.

Their greatest enemy is a fascist regime known as The Library.

Magicians and The Library are currently locked in one hell of a battle Eliot doesn't know much about at the moment, but plans to get caught up on after bringing Quentin back.

The Fillory books are based on an actual real world. (Craig had a minor spastic moment about that one, having been a big fan of the books.)

The spell to save Q needed to happen in Fillory, which would require building a portal.

. . . the list went on. Sentient boats, ancient gods, etcetera.

At the end of the list, Craig cleared his throat. "If you wouldn't mind me tagging along, I'd love to see the real Fillory . . ."his voice dripped with nerd-hope.

"Why not," El shrugged. "You've seen me float wine glasses. You saw Penny teleport. This is the second time you've helped me get closer to saving Q. At this point, why not let you see a planet with two moons and a bunch of talking animals?"

"Can't wait." Craig tried not to visibly jitter with glee, given the seriousness of his friend's mission.

Upon arriving in Honeyfield Springs, they purchased pjs, a change of clothes, two shovels, and a camping lantern.

A short time after that, while settling into their motel room, Eliot struck a hero-pose, hands on his hips. "Come nightfall, we graverob!"

Craig tried and failed to suppress a cringe.

"Oh . . . hey," El mused, sitting down on the foot of the bed next to Craig, instantly regretting his playful, cavalier tone. "There's usually a kind of logic to spellcraft, and . . . and the thing here is . . . since Unknown Man lived his whole life longing for love he never got, and I'm trying to bring back someone  _I loved,_ his bones make the perfect beacon to, I guess you'd say . . . draw Q toward me."

"It's just so  _dark . . ."_

"I know," Eliot responded with genuine sympathy. "It fucking sucks and it's awful, and sad, but as an element in what basically amounts to a love spell? It's the closest thing that poor dead man will ever get to being loved."

Craig placed his head on Eliot's shoulder and sighed. "Magic is turning out to be so much less whimsical than I thought. I wish it could all be floating wine glasses and talking animals."

"Me too." Eliot gently stroked his friend's hair and let a few minutes pass in silence before changing the subject. "We've still got a few hours before sunset, and I don't know about you but I'm exhausted. We should take a nap."

"Agreed." Craig nodded. "You take the bed, I'll take the floor."

"What?!" El scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous Craig, You are  _not_ sleeping on the floor!" He snatched the pillow from the other man's hand and plunked it down next to his. "Get in."

"You-you don't . . . that wouldn't be  _weird_ for you?"

"Oh, my sweet naive Craig," Eliot cooed as he settled himself beneath the covers. "You think you love Fillory now, just wait until you see how sex and relationships work."

"And how's that?" Craig asked with deep curiosity.

"You'll see. And no, I don't feel weird about sharing a bed, even without money involved. I'm under a lot of stress right now and I  _refuse_ to sleep un-snuggled if I don't have to!"

Craig chose not to object.

 _Hm. So this is what it feels like to be the little spoon,_ Eliot thought as sleep descended upon him. _Interesting. Now all I need is Q here to be the *littlest spoon* and life will be perfect._

Several hours later the men loaded their shovels, duffel bag, and lantern into a rented car, and drove the six miles to an isolated cemetery.

Eliot plucked a small handful of bright yellow flowers growing along the perimeter of the site, and Craig watched as he magic'd them into floating yellow guides leading a direct path to the grave of Unknown Man.

As his dates of birth and death were also unknown, the only words etched on his tombstone were:  _Unknown Man, here buried May 7th 1925. May he find peace and comfort in the arms of our Lord._

"Poetic," Eliot muttered.

"It is. Hey, if that flower trick got us around having to search the whole cemetery, can't you just use magic to  _raise up_ the coffin as well? Just  _poof,_ outta the dirt?"

"Nope," El shook his head. "But when I un-magic'd the flowers I did tack on a little something to make the dirt softer, so that should speed things up."

A few hours and four feet later, Craig stood up straight and twisted around, working the kinks out of his long-hunched back. "This is  _soft dirt?"_ He whined. "Jesus, I need to take up more manual labor! Or at least join a gym!"

"Can you afford the membership fees, though?" Asked Eliot with a wry smile. "I hear they're steep."

"Aren't we  _funny."_  Craig shot back, driving his shovel once again into the ground.

It was after midnight by the time they reached Unknown Man's coffin and pried it open. Mere hints of disintegrated fabric hung in tatters over the bones. Hardly more than threads.

Eliot unzipped their duffel bag and crouched down, gently sweeping flecks of dirt off of him. "1925, huh?" He asked, still brushing away dirt. "Well, now you've got some people out here who really,  _really_ need you. Sorry it took so long."

Nothing else could be said that would pass muster as anything more than a platitude, so the men went about the business of carefully placing bones inside the duffel bag.

"Is there anything else we need after this?" Craig asked.

"A few bunnies, but I can summon those right to us, no problem."

"Oh  _god!"_ Craig rasped in horror. "We don't have to sacrifice bunnies,do we? Because I'm sorry, but that might be a step too far!"

"He says, while stuffing a human skull into a duffle bag." Eliot couldn't help but tease in spite of their somber task.

"This is different!" Craig insisted, still upset at the prospect of having to kill sweet little fluffballs. "Poor Yorick here was already dead!"

"Yorick?"

"Yeah, Yorick. You know, _Yorick . . ."_ the man kept explaining. "Shakespeare? Hamlet?"

"Right," El replied with a grunt as he heaved himself out of the grave and motioned for Craig to hand him the duffel bag. "I'm not really up on my Hamlet quotes." He turned to help Craig out of the six foot hole. "Or, um,  _any_ Shakespeare quotes."

"Ah!" Craig cried out with an air of celebratory relief. "Finally, he has a flaw!"

"We met because I was selling myself for sex, remember?" Eliot reminded his partner in crime while tossing the first shovelful of dirt back into Unknown Man's grave. "Some might call that a slight flaw."

"True," said Craig with a playful wink. "But you came after  _me,_ which speaks highly of your good taste."

"Finally, he has an ego!" Eliot smiled, mirroring the other man's wink.

Filling in the grave went a lot faster than digging it up. Still, pinkish gold hints of dawn were seeping into sky by time they trudged back to the car.

"Thank god we took that nap," Craig yawned while brushing dirt off his clothes.

Eliot nodded in silent, sleepy agreement.

"Hey, you never did answer my question about the rabbits. Are we-"

"We're not killing rabbits, Craig," Eliot assured him.

"Then what do you need them for?"

"You'll see," he replied as they got into the car. "It's a lot cooler than floating wine glasses." Eager as he was to see the look on Craig's face, the Talking Rabbit Show would have to wait 'til morning (or rather, later that day), as both men were exhausted.

When Craig awoke at a quarter to one in the afternoon, his little spoon was no longer in bed. Rather, the man was sitting in a chair across the room sipping mediocre coffee from a small Styrofoam cup provided by their less-than-world-class motel. Otherwise known as the only motel in Honeyfield Springs.

"Oh good, I've been waiting for you to wake up!" Eliot said with a winsome, playful smile.

Craig was awake enough by then to realize there were a several raspy voices coming from the general direction of  _down,_ so he propped himself up just enough to see the floor.

Then sat bolt upright in an instant.

"Rabbits!" He yelped in surprise.

"They are rabbits." Eliot nodded calmly, taking another small sip of coffee.

"Rabbits talk! I thought that was just a Fillory thing!"

El smiled. "We use them to send messages. Normally they don't talk in front of regular people, only Magicians or other Magical Creatures. But I vouched for you. Told them you're chill."

"Uh-huh," said Craig, slowly placing his feet on the floor. "Yes. Chill. I am . . . so very  _chill._ Right now."

"And here's the part I've been super excited to show you!" Eliot leapt from his chair and picked up the grey bunny with a white spot on his neck. "I'm sending this one to The Witch of The Darkling Woods."

Craig recognized the name from _Fillory And Further,_  but couldn't remember anything else about the character aside from her being a witch.

The bunny in question was rasping the same simple phrase over and over. "Visiting soon, love Eliot. Visiting soon, love Eliot. Visiting soon, love Eliot."

El then hoisted the little animal high in the air and just  _dropped it._

Craig lunged to catch the poor animal, but it vanished in mid-air."

"This one is going to her, too," his friend said, picking up another bunny.

"Bringing a friend. Bringing a friend. Needs place to stay."

_Drop._

"And this one."

"Just a few days. Just a few days . . ."

_Drop._

Craig was about to ask a series of questions when another bunny seemed to fall from the sky and land on the middle of the bed.

"Oh good!" Eliot chirped. "I sent a message to my friend King Margo while you were asleep. This must her reply."

Both men watched as the bunny explored their mattress, waiting patiently for it to talk.

"Castle empty. Fairy Queen's bathtub in north storage shed. North storage shed. Castle empty. Castle empty. Tub in north shed. Love, Margo."

Another bunny dropped.

"Still think you're crazy. You're crazy. Don't die. Crazy. Don't die. Love, Margo."

"Wooooow," Craig mused, rubbing his eyes to chase out the last remnants of sleep. "What about that one?" He nodded to the calico bunny sniffing around the dresser. "Who is he messaging?"

"Oh him? No one. He hopped up on the bed earlier, landed right on your ass, and you didn't even twitch. You  _have to hear_ what he said, it's hilarious." Eliot whistled to get the rabbit's attention. "He's awake now. Go tell him!"

Eliot watched as the calico went hopping up on the bed, bounced into Craig's lap, and rose up with his paws on the man's chest so they were practically nose to nose.

"Lazy man. Lazy," said the bunny. "Too sleepy. Lazy." With that, the animal hopped down and went back to sniffing furniture.

Eliot slung his body down next to Craig. "Great, right? He says his name is Loopsie."

"Charmed to meet you, Loopsie." Craig deadpanned in the bunny's general direction.

"Okay, Craig. This is it," his friend said, his voice shaky and nervous. "I have everything I need from earth. Fucking _finally._  Which means . . . it's time."

"We're going to Fillory now?"

Eliot nodded. "We'll get dressed, then I'll build the portal . . . which may or may not actually  _work properly_ until tomorrow," he finished with a weary sigh.

Once dressed, Craig sat at the foot of the bed drinking some generic brand of breakfast tea and watched his friend attempt to set up their portal.

The poor man stopped several times to growl and/or stomp in growing frustration, wringing his hands as if to shake off bad energy.

"Once more, from the top," El muttered to himself. ". . . _Fuck!_  Fine! Starting over!" Eventually he stopped, calmed, and took several steps backward, his gaze sliding to Craig, every move slow and cautious as if he was afraid the new portal might spook and run away.

"Done?" Craig asked.

"I think so. Let's find out."

Craig closed the book he'd been scrolling through on his phone.

Eliot gathered up the satchel and duffel bag, and took ahold of Craig's hand. "Here we go. Get ready to see Fillory."

With that, they stepped through the portal.

 _Fillory looks exactly like the motel parking lot,_ thought Craig as Eliot shouted various expletives.

Their next attempt landed them next to a sign that read 'Welcome To Indiana.'

"I SWORE I'D NEVER COME BACK HERE!" El bellowed, flipping off the sign with both hands before yanking Craig back through the portal.

"I think I have an idea that might help," Craig said when they stepped back into the motel room after attempt number six (a bouncy house occupied by several confused toddlers). "The messenger bunnies seem to blip out of sight wherever you drop them . . . and then blip back in . . . if I'm understanding this right . . . in the general proximity of whoever's supposed to get the return message?" Craig asked, only half confident in his theory. "Is that how it works?"

"Yes," Eliot nodded. "But bunnies are  _Magical Creatures,_  Craig, so that kind of inter-world travel is their own special magic, not a portal." The man paced back and forth as he explained, radiating frustration. "It's a nice thought, and thank you for the input, but I can't replicate bunny travel."

"Nooooooo, but that's not where I was going," Craig specified. "Have you ever seen a big dog on a leash dragging its owner down the street?"

El stopped pacing and faced Craig with a puzzled look. "Yeeeeeesssss . . . point being?"

The other man shrugged. "Well, has anyone ever thought to toss a magic lasso or whatever around a rabbit and see if . . . if maybe they get dragged along for the ride?"

If Eliot's jaw hit the ground any harder it would have cracked the earth's surface. Or at least left a dent.

He gaped.

And gaped.

And gaped

"W-would something like that work?" asked Craig, already slouching with embarrassment for suggesting something so ridiculous.

"I don't know Craig," Eliot replied, struggling to hold an even tone, and rallying all his senses to prevent himself from freaking out. "Because in a  _ZILLION FUCKING YEARS OF MAGICIANS NOT ONE OF US EVER THOUGHT TO TRY THAT!"_

Damn his better senses.

They failed.

The ensuing freak out was spectacular. "Not  _ONE!_ Even if it failed there'd still be some mention of it in our history books! BUT NO! YOU!  _YOU_ THOUGHT OF IT FIRST!  _YOU DID!"_

"I'm not sure if I should take offense at your level of surprise," Craig mumbled.

"Oh, it's not an insult!" El insisted. "You are goddamn _AMAZING!_  YOU LEARNED ABOUT MAGIC LIKE FIVE MINUTES AGO, AND CAME UP WITH THAT FUCKING  _GENIUS_ IDEA!"

"Okay. Well that's nice to know," his friend said. "And I'm flattered . . . but . . . you should sit down now, Eliot. I'm afraid you're going to give yourself a stroke."

They chose a bunny, and it took Eliot less than ten minutes to select a spell that might function as a leash, or magnet, between themselves and the little animal.

"So here we go," Eliot breathed, vibrating with nerves as he slung the satchel over his shoulder and Craig held on to the duffle bag. "First  _historic_ trial run." He bent down and picked up the calico bunny. "Message for the Witch of the Darkling Woods: I'm here." He gave Craig's hand a tight squeeze, and let go of Loopsie.

It felt like being lifted high in the air and dropped, the colors and sounds of their surroundings whooshing and swirling around too fast to register. When their feet struck a dirt path the chaotic motion halted instantly.

And there they were.

In the Darkling Woods, only feet from Ruth, who was in her garden pruning plants. "Eliot!" She practically shrieked, flinging herself toward her him as Loopsie delivered the message of his arrival.

"Mommy!" Eliot cried out in response, pulling her her clear off the ground in a tight hug.

"Oooooh, I've been so worried about you!" The woman breathed. "You were gone so much longer than-" at that moment she noticed Craig, who'd been standing by, patiently waiting to be acknowledged. "And this must be the friend that other bunny mentioned before."

"Mmhm."

Eliot set the woman down, and Craig stepped forward to shake her hand.

"I'm Ruth," she said while looking him up and down. "My, aren't we dapper?"

"I try," said Craig with a bashful smile. "And It's lovely to meet you Ruth, Eliot didn't mention you two were related."

"No dear, I'm not actually-"

"Oh, fuck it!" Eliot declared with a flippant wave of his hand. "My real mom is a pill popping doormat who constantly slapped me around. I'm adopting you."

"Hm." Ruth mulled over the the notion while smoothing down her disheveled hair. "Well. In that case, if you have any degrees or certificates of accomplishment I'll need copies to hang on my wall." She pet Eliot's face for a brief moment, then turned her attention back to the other man. "Now, I don't believe I got your name?"

"It's Craig Conner, ma'am."

Ruth shot Eliot a sly look. "Interim boyfriend?"

"We snuggle." El shrugged. "And as far as degrees, the buck stops at a High School Diploma and BA from a thoroughly unimpressive college in Indiana. As it turns out I also make an outstanding prostitute, but there's no actual accreditation with that."

"So, Diploma and Bachelor of Arts it is. Yes dear," Ruth cut off her adult baby boy before he could interject. "I know what _'BA'_  stands for. I have nipped off to earth once or twice in my day. Now, my goodness, don't you both look exhausted! Come on in and I'll make tea."

She lead the way to her cottage door, linking arms with Craig.

"I can stay for tea, but then I need to get to Whitespire," said Eliot. "I have everything I need for the resurrection sp-"

"If you'd like to fail, by all means, try doing the spell hungry and unrested," Ruth interrupted. The words were harsh, but her tone was gentle and kind. A special talent of hers. "A smart man would stay for the night and start fresh in the morning."

Eliot knew she was right. He wanted more than anything to gather his four quarts of blood and be on his way that second, but as for what he  _needed?_ The resurrection spell  _had to_  work _._

It had to.

Nothing mattered more than that.

So he relented in favor of a solid meal and a good night's sleep.

"What is that?"Craig asked just as they reached the cottage door, pointing at what looked to him like a bio-luminescent butterfly, only it was the size of his arm.

"That, my dear, is how we know it's actually proper  _night time_ here in the Darkling Woods." She stepped aside and waved the men into her home. "In a few more hours this whole forest will be swarming with glowing butterflies, dragonflies, moths. Even crickets. All over the place. All sorts of sizes."

"And . . . and do they talk?" Craig asked hopefully.  _Imagine having a conversation with a glowing butterfly!_

"Sorry, but no." said Eliot as they sat at the table and Ruth moved her heavy kettle onto the stove. "In other parts of Fillory, yes. Some. But these ones are special. They're called Shining Nightwings of the Darkling Woods."

"And they hummmmmmm," Ruth added with a musical lilt in her voice.

"Really? Like . . . songs and things?"

"Sometimes." The woman sat down next to him, enjoying the man's giddy excitement. "They have good memories as well," she continued, the smile on her face mirroring Craig's. "And they learn fast. I've taught most of the Nightwings around here at least a dozen tunes."

The many quirks and eccentricities of Darkling Woods were old news to Eliot. Mundane. But somehow witnessing Craig's continuous amazement made it all seem more . . .  _spectacular._

The sort of clever magic a kid would dream up.

He fell asleep that night on a cot outdoors, cozily little-spooned and listening to several nearby Nightwings hum.

_Nice harmony . . ._

When a dream came swimming into clear view, it was the mosaic.

Him sitting and placing down tiles.

Quentin wandering nearby, studying the pattern in progress.

He watched the two exchange chit-chat he couldn't hear. Like their dialog was on mute or something.

Then suddenly, as he watched the nostalgic scene, he heard his own voice begin to croon:

" _I was alright._

_For a while._

_I could smiiiiiile fooooor a while . . ."_

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: It's the MUSICAL EPISODE, BITCHES!]


	9. Stand!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Showtime! There's tears, laughs, songs, and spells to raise the dead! Y'know, good clean family fun.

Eliot stood watching the Dream Image. A memory.

It was a mundane moment filed away in his mind alongside thousands of similar ones. It wasn't even special in the usual sense. It marked no celebration, no milestone, no nothing.

Instead of some grand occasion, he stood watching the dream-replay of an unremarkable happening. An ordinary, 'we-do-this-every-day' sliver of his life in Fillory.

Just himself arranging tiles while Q wandered around close by, observing his work.

But watching the entirely un-special scene play out . . . seeing them chatter so casually back and forth . . . ? Even though he couldn't hear their conversation, the whole thing playing out in pantomime, just witnessing the simple moment made him ache.

 _Don't look,_ he told himself.  _Just focus on something else and let the dream fade out._

But he couldn't make himself look away.

So instead he sang quietly, stepping closer and closer to the mosaic's brick border with each note.

" _I was alright._

_For a while._

_I could smiiiiile foooor a while . . ."_

His mind drifted back to the day he watched that memory of himself rejecting Quentin, and how Memory Q had been, intermittently,  _somewhat_ aware of his presence. And real enough to touch. And kiss.

He knew that stepping forward to actually  _kiss_ this Memory Q would only make it hurt more when he woke up, but he couldn't resist the urge to at least  _touch_ the man.

Have some kind of contact.

So the next time Memory Q moved close enough, he reached out and took ahold of his hand.

" _But I saw you last night,_

_you held my haaaaand so tight,_

_as you stopped to say_

_Helloooooo . . ."_

Although Memory Q did give his hand a brief squeeze in response, his focus remained entirely on Memory Eliot's work. He paced lazily around the man. Making comments. Suggestions.

" _You wished me well._

_You couldn't tell_

_that I'd been cry-ey-eying_

_oveeeeeer you._

_Cry-ey-eying_

_oveeeeeer you._

He wished so badly that Memory Quentin could interact with him in a more meaningful, less fleeting way . . .

. . . standing so close, only to remain invisible? Nothing but a ghost spying on his own memory? It was too much, and he finally began backing away, eyes still locked on Q.

With every backward step his voice grew louder. Steadier.

" _Then you . . . said so long . . ._

_Left me standing . . . all alone._

_Alone and crying . . ._

_crying . . ._

_crying . . ._

cryyyyying, it's hard to uuuuuuunnnnderstand

_but the tooooouuuuch of your hand_

_can start me crying . . ."_

Suddenly, in a blink, he found himself confronted with a different memory. And this one felt like being tossed in ice water.

He stood a few feet to the left of Memory Q as the man sat there  _trying_ to explain to Memory Eliot why the two of them should be together. Why they  _worked._ And in front of them both stood Happy Place Eliot, watching it all unfold.

Happy Place Eliot actually looked directly at him. They nodded to one another, and resumed the song.

A duet full of loss and longing:

" _I thought that I_

_was over you._

_But it's truuuuueeee, so true._

_I love you even more_

_than I did before._

_But darling, what can I dooooo?"_

El recalled feeling so certain of himself that day, in spite of the pain. Feeling so sure his friend only  _thought_ he wanted them to be together because his brain was too steeped in sentiment to function properly. That he was riding high atop a tidal wave sweet, fluffy Fillory Memories, and eventually that wave would crash. He'd remember who the fuck he actually was, they'd break up, and their friendship would be ruined.

But now he and Happy Place Eliot stood there helplessly, both watching an awful replay of the mistake they couldn't un-do.

It happened.

Together they watched this  _idiot man_  say those words.  _("I love you but . . .")_

And then Memory Q just sat there. Silent and heartbroken.

Every fine detail of  _this moment_ stood out alive and vivid in Eliot's memory.

How fucking difficult it had been to 'stand strong' against the urge to take back everything he'd just said leap at the chance to give things another go. How the only thing that held his resolve in place was the lie he told himself in that moment . . .

. . . That he was right about Q. That his best friend would only come to regret another attempt at romance.

Then out of nowhere, a special kind of Dream Torture made the moment even worse.

Changed things.

As he and Happy Place Eliot watched, Memory Eliot took over the song, gazing at Memory Quentin with sad acceptance . . . 

" _For you doooooon't love me,_

_And I'll aaaaaalllllways be_

_cry-ey-eying_

_oveeeer you,_

_cry-ey-eying_

_oveeeer you."_

He and Happy Place Eliot began to hum a kind of backup while Memory Eliot went on singing.

" _Yes . . . now you're gone._

_And from this moment on,_

_I'll be crying,_

_crying,_

_crying . . ._

_Cryyyyyyying, yeah cryyyyying,_

_CRYYYYYYING,_

_OOOO-OOO-OOOOVER YOOOOUUUUU . . ._

He woke up with a sharp gasp as several Shining Nightwings came swooping into view, gliding this way and that as smaller wing'd insects darted around them like hyper pets.

"Are you okay?" Craig's voice muttered beside him.

Eliot turned to face the man, whose every feature broadcast softness and concern.

"You've been getting more and more restless the last few minutes," Craig said. "I-I wasn't sure whether or not to wake you."

Eliot sat up slowly, followed by his new and dear friend. "It's just . . . I know I'll need all my energy for this spell, like fucking  _all of it,_ and every ounce of magic I can rally, but . . . as much as I've got it all planned, the whole thing mapped out in my head-and I do, I have for months . . . what if . . ." he heaved a deep sigh. "I mean, it's still _so dangerous!"_

Craig nodded, stroking his Eliot's back. "I know. Just from what you've told me . . ." he allowed the sentence to trail off rather than let himself ask a stupid question like 'are you sure you want go through with it?'

Eliot kept talking. "And I know how much it's going to-I know I'm, it's, it's-Craig, I just want-" he heard his voice begin to shake and crack. "I wanna go right now! I wanna go, and do this, and I-I'm so fucking close!"

Craig sat quiet, wishing he could summon up the right words to . . .

 _Comfort? Support?_ He wondered.  _There has to be something . . ._

But what do you say to your somewhat lover when he's poised on the brink of bringing another lover and lifemate back from the dead? As Craig pondered the bizarre question, he gazed at the many glowing creatures gliding through the air all around them. Some humming high notes, some humming low.

 _Is there a song for this situation?_ He wondered.  _Un. Fucking. Likely . . ._

"Don't worry," El warbled with fleeting eye contact and a long, ragged breath. "I'm fine, I just . . . you don't have to say anything."

"Hmmmmmm . . ." The man mused.  _There might be an option . . ._ "Ruth said these Nightwings learn fast, right?" He asked, wearing a gentle half-smile as he brushed tears from Eliot's eyes before they had a chance to fall. "Let's find out how fast is  _'fast.'_ "

"Test drive?" El warbled, still trying to calm down.

Craig nodded and began to hum. It was something Eliot recognized, but couldn't quite place.

_I know . . . I know this song . . . I do, it's um . . . it's . . ._

Before he could place the melody, Craig sang the first soft lyrics:

" _Oh, why you look so sad?_

_The tears are in your eyes,_

_come on and come to me, now . . ._

_Don't . . . be afraid to cry._

_Let me see you throoooough,_

' _cause I've seen the dark side too."_

"The Pretenders," said Eliot as nearby Nightwings fluttered close, all providing harmonious accompaniment. "G-good choice."

"I think you should trust your gut, Eliot," Craig said quietly. "You seem awake as hell to me, and if you're this worked up, then . . . I think . . . maybe you've had enough sleep. Maybe you're as ready as you'll ever be, and it's time to just  _do it."_  He did his best to smile. "Solo skydive, baby."

It was then that they both noticed Ruth swaying in the doorway of her cottage, clutching the doorframe as if trying to remain stoic and not fuss over Eliot's distress.

He leapt from the cot and moved towards her in long, quick strides. "I know you're worried about me, and I don't know how long I've been asleep, but I promise it's enough, okay? Okay, I'm-I'm fine, I'm alert, I'm . . . " he drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders, bracing himself for Angry Ruth. "S-so . . . I am taking those four quarts of blood whether you like it or not, it's  _my blood,_  and I'm going! And that's that!" He had every intention of standing firm, but as he looked down at Ruth his poor burdened spine couldn't quite manage the extra weight. "Please?" He whispered, almost whining. "I'm  _so close,_ and I, I can't sleep anymore. I just can't!"

The woman stepped out of her cottage, eyes wandering over their elegant orchestra of humming Nightwings until her gaze returned to Eliot.

"No need to be sorry," she assured him, cradling his face in her hands.

She waited patiently for the Nightwing's tune to come back 'round to the right place for her to pick up the song. "This is a lovely choice of song, dear," she called to Craig without taking her eyes off of Eliot.

Seconds later her cue arrived:

" _When the night falls on you_

_and you don't know what to do,_

_nothing you confess . . ._

_could make me love you less . . ."_

At that moment Craig's voice joined Ruth's as he rose from the cot.

" _I'll stand by you._

_I'll staaaaaand by you._

_Won't let nobody hurt you . . ._

_I'll stand by you . . ."_

The gentle duet went on, albeit with a few verses skipped.

 _I like those verses, but this one's more relevant to our situation,_ thought Eliot.  _These two have good instincts. Is it instinct?_ He wondered if perhaps the Shining Nightwing's hum created some sort of . . . Song Magic.

" _When you're standing at the crossroads_

_and don't know which path to choose,_

_let me come alooooong,_

' _cause even if you're wrong . . ._

_I'll stand by you . . ._

_I'll staaaaand by you,"_

At that point Ruth stepped back into her cottage, leaving the door open to continue singing along with Craig as she went about her business.

" _I'll stand by you,_

_I'll staaaaand by you."_

She took four single-court jars of blood from a cupboard and wrapped them carefully in reams of cloth.

" _Won't let nobody hurt you._

_I'll stand by you."_

She tucked each jar into Eliot's satchel alongside the 7.5 kilos of fairy dust, and gathered up his bone-filled duffel bag as well while Craig crouched down to summon Loopsie, who'd been exploring Ruth's garden for most of the night.

" _Take me in, into your darkest hour,"_ Ruth and Craig's voices soared together as Eliot bowed down enough for the woman to slide the satchel's strap over his head.

" _And I'll never desert you._

_I'll stand by you . . ."_

Then El joined in, and the trio huddled close together as the last lyrics repeated over and over:

" _I'll stand by you, I'll staaaaand by you . . ."_

On and on, until the Nightwings trailed off in favor of freeform notes.

Goodbyes and good lucks were exchanged, along with a host of other fond sentiments.

"I guess this is it then," said Eliot, taking his rabbit-taxi from Craig and petting the animal for a moment before whispering in its ear. "Go to Castle Whitespire. Castle Whitespire . . ." he repeated the destination a few more times before letting go of the bunny, who merely hit the ground with a soft  _plunk_ and began to hop away.

"What the fuck, Loopsie?! I said Whitespire! Let's go!"

The bunny turned around, ears twitching. "No," he returned to Eliot's side and hopped high enough to head-bump the man's satchel. "Blood. Much blood. Dark Magic. Nope. No, no."

"But-"

"Won't go. Won't, won't," Loopsie went on repeating the word as he hopped away, completely indifferent. "Nope. Won't, won't, won't . . ."

"You  _DICK!"_ Eliot yelled at the tiny animal loud enough to spook several nearby moths and dragonflies, who all darted several feet away.

The largest butterflies, however, remained close. Gracefully orbiting the strange little family like a kind of multi-colored halo.

"Hm." Ruth mused, hands on her hips. "Just when I thought I knew everything about Magical Creatures, here come rabbits with a moral code."

"Goddamnit! I don't fucking  _believe this!"_ Eliot shouted, smashing his foot against a nearby tree stump several times in futile rage.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic!" Ruth insisted, giving El's arm a delicate swat. "I can have a portal built in a few minutes."

"Sorry," Eliot breathed as his anger-spiked pulse settled down. "I'm just . . . really on edge."

Ruth waved off the apology with a gentle smile. "Oh goodness, I completely forgot!" she said suddenly. "Craig, there's a big muslin sack hanging by the door, it's full of food, a waterskin, and some clothes, would you mind fetching it? Where is my head, huh?" She asked Eliot with a self-deprecating cringe. "I nearly sent you off without food or water!"

"I appreciate the thought," Eliot assured her with a warm smile as Craig went about his assigned task. "But if I have the math right I can't stop the handwork or incantations for longer than a minute."

"How long will the spell take?" Ruth asked with a concerned frown.

Eliot shrugged. "Again, according to the math it'll take at least twenty hours just for Q's central nervous system to finish building itself. Hence my massive supply of enhanced fairy dust," he patted the satchel. "Magic PCP."

"Hm." The woman pursed her lips. "Quite a big job then. And does  _the math_  say exactly how soon you'll pass out from dehydration? No? Then you can take ten damn seconds here and there for a few sips water."

Firm. Resolute. Yet somehow still warm.

"Yes mother." El chuckled, grateful for the woman's brittle practicality. "I will drink water, and have a few bites of food _._ But no way in  _hell_ am I taking the time out to change clothes."

Ruth rolled her eyes. "The clothes are for your manfriend, you  _dolt."_ She explained. "If he's coming back from _the dead_ odds are he'll be buck naked, not wearing a three piece suit! Don't worry, I enchanted the fabric to fit anybody."

 _Clothes,_ El marveled.  _How did I not think of that?_

"Oh. Well then." He cleared his throat. "Thank you."

The woman gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "It's no bother. I hope he likes bright colors."

 _Oh boy._ Eliot got a mental image of trying to forcibly wrestle Q into some nightmare neon tracksuit. It gave him a much needed giggle.

As he and Ruth talked, Craig emerged from the cottage carrying the muslin sack.

El slung the thing over his shoulder and drew a deep breath.  _A satchel, a sack, and a duffel bag. Thank god for portals or this would be one bitch of a walk._

El repeated his goodbyes, accepted Craig and Ruth's well wishes and words of caution, and minutes later he stood on castle grounds, staring at Whitespire in shock.

Windows broken, west side of the stone facade scorched, south spire toppled, and not a person in sight.

 _War with Loria? Or Library? Why would the Library launch a multi-world assault?_ Possibilities raced through his mind until he forced them to stop. _None of that shit matters right now, get Q back, then deal with whatever the fuck this is!_

He was headed for the north storage shed to look for the Fairy Queen's bathtub when something caught the corner of his eye. One of the castle's massive double doors had been knocked completely off its hinges, but the other still hung on precariously.

On that door was a scroll, pinned in place by a large knife.

And he had to know.

 _What the fuck am I doing?_ He wondered, diverging from his quest and approaching the door with caution. As if the thing might come to life and bite him.

He set down the sack of food and reached out to unfurl the scroll, revealing words scribbled in massive print:

_HE REMEMBERS MORE THAN HE THINKS HE DOES. USE BLOOD MAGIC. -MARGO_

_Q? Is Q the 'he'? How the fuck would Margo-_

"Fuck your questions, they can wait!" He yelled aloud at adjusted his satchel and hefted the sack of food over his shoulder again.  _Focus. North shed. You're doing this._

At least the shed was intact. Picked clean of everything that could be used as or forged into a weapon, but otherwise undamaged.

And there, in the center of the single room, was his last required item.

The Fairy Queen's bathtub, which he  _hoped_ was still infused with some measure of Fairy Magic.

He intended to surround his blood and the Unknown Man's bones with as much magic energy as possible. And when he crouched down to touch the rim of the tub, the ancient remnant of magic left behind by the Monster thrummed down his spine, as if thrilled to meet another source of  _massive_  Magic. A formless friend, or peer.

 _Yes!_ Eliot's heart raced, more and more certain of impending success.

Each cell of his blood was soaked in loss and grief over Q. And the bones? All infused to the marrow with an unfulfilled longing for love.

It all added up to  _a fuckton_ of power.

Finally, there was the fairy dust to keep him alert and active through thirty, forty, maybe even seventy hours of constant spellcasting.

_I have a goddamn *arsenal* here!_

Eliot dropped his sack of food, slid the satchel of blood and dust off his shoulder, and carefully set the duffel bag of Unknown Man's bones on the ground.

It felt like a thousand years since he'd paced and writhed behind those dungeon bars, detoxing and beginning to form the nucleus of this plan. Now after so much work, so many snags and errors, there he stood. With every one of the spell's necessary components  _literally_ right there at his feet.

 _Here we go . . ._ he thought _. . . the beginning of the end of life without Q._

The first step was pouring all four quarts of blood into the tub. The second step was using that blood like fingerpaint, writing the necessary phrases in full circumference around the tub, inside and out. There was the specific language of the spell, followed by a short phrase with unique significance between the spellcaster and departed loved one.

 _Too easy,_ Eliot thought as he painted his chosen words.

Without wiping the blood off his hands, he found a plank of wood amidst the wild scatter of stuff _._ The plank was roughly seven feet long and five feet wide.

_This'll work._

He dragged it close to the tub, poured out piles of fairy dust, and used the edge of Craig's adorable little name/address card to cut dozens and dozens of rails. So the lines would be there at the ready, and he wouldn't have to waste valuable seconds cutting new ones over and over again.

When there was only a little room left on the plank, he poured the remaining dust in a pile, setting Craig's card at the base.

_What next?_

The bones. Arranged in the tub in proper order. Correcting small errors such as order of vertebrae, finger bones, toes, etc? That was simple magic. Just poppers twenty and sixteen, repeated twice. Done. Not even an incantation involved.

_And now we start the show!_

Leftover Monster Magic had allowed him to make enough room in his brain for the  _exact choreography_ needed to construct every vein and capillary. But he was still nervous, so he set his and Alice's notes within easy reach.

 _Just in case,_ he told himself as he crouched next to the tub, a sudden swell of pure terror wracking through his whole body.  _Just in case I draw a blank. I have the notes . . . if I draw a blank, I have the notes . . ._ he glanced at the small stack of papers, his throat dry and palms sweating.  _Right there. I'm covered. I have the notes, it's all . . . I'm covered . . . it's all ready . . . I can start . . ._

He didn't move.

_GET FUCKING GOING!_

Still the panic refused to subside.

 _Take a minute,_ he told himself, gulping down air.  _Go outside, drink some water. Don't start casting this thing until you're calm._

He opened up the muslin sack and fished out the waterskin.  _Thank you, Ruth._

The fresh air, warm breeze, and cool water helped. After a few sips he cleaned the blood off his hands and splashed some water on his face. Eventually the shaking subsided. He regained control, and returned to the shed.

After inhaling four rails of fairy dust he held his hands over the tub, right above the fleshless feet of Unknown Man. With middle fingers pressed to thumbs, he moved carefully, as if pulling two needles  _very slowly_ through reams of constantly shifting fabric.

 _Start the incantation riiiiiiight . . ._ at exactly the moment his left hand crossed over right hand, and right hand dipped down . . .

"Partum carne, partum mentis, cor creare . . . vivere, cogitare, amare . . . terminus cruciatus . . . reditus Quentin." Then ending his incantation with his chosen phrase. The one specific to himself and Q. " . . .Persica et pruna, persica et pruna, persica et pruna."

_(create flesh, create mind, create heart . . . to live, to think, to love . . . end my torment . . . return Quentin. . . Peaches and plums, peaches and plums, peaches and plums.)_

As the words repeated over and over, Unknown Man's bones began to absorb Eliot's blood a few scant drops at a time.

Meanwhile, in another place where matter didn't matter and time moved strangely, Penny40 dashed through the sprawling hallways and rooms of the Library as fast as his legs could carry him.

 _God I miss Traveling!_ He thought.  _Of all the things they could've amputated . . . Fuck! Where the hell IS HE?_ The cranky man berated himself.  _I had ONE JOB!_

"Penny?" Quentin's worried voice called out from . . . somewhere.

"I'm here!" He bellowed in reply, swatting away frenzied books as they swarmed around him like pissed off bats. "Follow my voice! I'm here! . . . Follow the voice, I'm here! . . . Am I getting louder?"

"Uh, it's hard to tell. It's-it's super echoey in here! And where is 'here' exactly?"

 _Oh my god, if the dude wasn't already dead I'd snap his stupid-wait!_ He thought as a new, better idea struck him.

"Okay, Coldwater, listen up! Do you see a really thick book with a dark green cover and gold lettering that's kinda burned at the corners?"

No response.

"QUENTIN!"

"Is it dark where you're at?" Q's voice bounced off the walls and looped in on itself. "It's dark where I am, Penny! I- _fuck! Quit it!-_ Jesus, there's books flying  _all over!_ They- _ow!-_  they seem angry! What the shit is going on?!"

"Long story, man. Our spellsource is knocked out! Not sure how long that's gonna last, hopefully a while, but for right now you should be able to cast simple magic, got it? Okay, so spark up a little light and LOOK FOR THE GODDAMN BOOK!" Penny repeated, annoyed on a level that  _only Quentin_ could provoke. "DARK GREEN! BURNED CORNERS! USE YOUR FUCKING EYES!" He waited, tapping his foot and swatting away any book that got too close.

"Oh-okay, I see it!"

"Great! Now start moving in  _any direction,_ see which way  _it goes,_  and follow it!"

A few minutes later the green book came zooming out of a massive hole in the wall about twenty yards from where Penny stood, followed closely by a breathless Quentin.

"Those things move  _fast!"_ He wheezed.

"Yeah, I know. Look, things are gonna get  _real weird_ in here any second now-"

" _Get weird?"_ Q yelped.  _"GET?!_ Is that a joke?!And where the fucking  _fuck_  is 'here'? I can't remem-"

Penny grabbed the obnoxious man's head in a vice-grip and stared him straight in the eye. "You remember more than you think you do. Blood magic can bring it back. You remember more than you think you do. Blood magic can bring it back. You remember more than you think you do. Blood magic can bring it back."

As Penny spoke the words, Quentin felt them slide into his brain like a series of slow-moving icepicks.

"I know more than I think I do," he repeated finally. "Blood magic can bring it back."

"Yes!" The other man shouted, grateful for one small victory, and completely nonplussed when a sourceless light began rapidly flashing through the dark space, creating a strobe effect.

Q held up an arm in a futile attempt to shield his eyes. "What's-"

"I got no time to explain," Penny growled. "We need to track down your ticket out  _right now!"_

Quentin allowed himself to be dragged by the arm through the strobe lit, book swarmed confusion. Penny dragged him through hall after hall, room after room. Along the way he caught flashes of people, creatures, objects . . . it all seemed like frantic chaos, and Q had a thousand questions, but he was sure Penny would stop and punch him in the dick if he even  _tried_ to ask.

Suddenly a familiar voice pierced the air, sounding inches away from them no matter where they ran to.  _Is that Kady? . . . I think it's Kady! . . . Why is Kady singing White Rabbit? And where the hell is she? Where the hell am I?_

None of the strangeness around them seemed to have any impact on Penny at all. Like they were just two guys running around for some reason.

"There's your ticket!" Penny shouted suddenly over the music, pointing to a man on the other side of the room. "I'd stick around and see you off, but I'm tits deep in a whole other thing right now! Seriously, good luck!" And with that he turned around and took off running.

"But-" Q groaned, instantly realizing there was no point in yelling after Penny, much less giving chase. And since this other guy seemed to be waving him over, he gave up trying to figure shit out, and crossed the room.

The man was wearing a sharp pinstripe suit and wingtip shoes.

"You Quentin Coldwater?" He yelled over the intense volume of Kady's voice.

"Yeah!" Q replied. "A-and look, I don't really understand  _any fucking thing_ that's happening right now. And . . . and I don't even remem-"

"Never you mind all that," the guy cut him off with a carefree wave as the ceiling directly above them cracked open. "There it is," he grinned, pointing up. "That is your road home, fella."

"H-home?" Quentin frowned.

"Yessir. Boy, is it your lucky day! You've got a sweetheart up there trying awful hard to get you back. Which, if what that other so-and-so told me is right, is a real dog of a job!"

"Um-"

"And hey, could you be a pal and do me one little favor once you get up there? Could you tell whoever brought you back that my name was Cyrus? I'd surely appreciate it!"

Quentin could not stop frowning. "Uuuuuuuhhhhhh . . . Cyrus?"

"Cyrus!" the man confirmed with a smart nod. "And golly, it'd sure mean the world to me if a living soul knew it!"

At that moment Q decided that he might kind of, sort of,  _possibly_ understand what  _might be_ going on. The 'how' he still didn't get, but the 'what?' He had a vague guess. "I uh . . . sure, I can do that. Cyrus. I'll . . . pass it along."

"Aw thanks a million, Mister, you're a real friend! Here, I'll give you a leg up!" Cyrus hunched down and webbed his hands together as a foothold for Quentin. "Happy travels!"

 _Shit, I hope I'm right about this,_ Quentin thought as the other man hefted him up . . .  _and I don't end up going someplace EVEN WEIRDER . . ._

Eliot glanced down at his rails of fairy dust.

_Only two left. I might not need them though . . . I think we're almost there._

The body had muscle, organs, most of its flesh, hair . . .and the eyes were moving around. Not really  _aware_ of anything yet as far as Eliot could tell, but every great once in a while they fixed on something for a second, so he knew they could at least _see stuff._

He waited for the body's hand to finish growing flesh, then took it between both of his and held tight as he went on reciting the spell's incantation.

"Partum carne, partum mentis, cor creare . . . vivere, cogitare, amare . . . terminus cruciatus . . . reditus Quentin. Persica et pruna, persica et pruna, persica et pruna . . ."

He didn't even have to think as he spoke. After at least two days that he was aware of, the words spilled from his throat as easy as breath.

The body began to make sounds.

 _Don't get distracted!_ Eliot commanded himself.  _Keep going!_

"Partum carne, partum mentis, cor creare . . ."

The eyes began to fix on things  _and focus_  . . . like he was _thinking. . ._

"Vivere, cogitare, amara . . ."

He could see hints and glimmers of expression starting to show on the man's face. Reactions, feelings . . . some of them lasting nearly a minute . . .

"Terminus cruciatus . . ."

At that point Eliot closed his eyes tight, worried that if he got too excited he might do something thoughtless like break the incantation and try speaking to Q before the resurrection was fully, truly  _complete._

And then it would all be ruined.

_I have to wait until he speaks TO ME . . . we're almost there . . . we're almost there . . ._

He had to remind himself of this every time almost-Quentin squeezed his hand.

Every time he heard the man move around a little.

Every time he heard the sound of Q's voice moaning, or even muttering distinct words.

Until those words were spoken  _to him_ specifically, they might not mean anything.

So through every thrilling milestone, every heart-skip and happy shiver, he kept muttering each phrase.

"Partum carne, partum mentis, cor-"

"Eliot?"

El's eyes flew open as he leapt into the tub, instantly throwing his arms around Quentin. "You're back! Oooooooh, _hi!"_  He breathed, "You're back, you're back Q, I did it! You're back, you're back . . ." he went on repeating himself, giddy and lightheaded as the other man's arms encircled him for the first time in well over a year. "I knew I could do this! I knew it, I fucking  _knew it!"_

Quentin did his best to hold Eliot tighter but his arms were too weak, so after a few seconds' effort he gave up, letting his arms fall slack over the other man's shoulders.

Eliot fell silent, just happily soaking up the feeling of Q,  _his Q,_  right there alive in his arms, leaning against him.

In reality.

Not some grief or drug-induced hallucination. Not some wispy dream.

Real.

Solid and warm.

_He's home . . . I brought him home . . ._

"Can you stand?" Eliot asked a few minutes later. Maybe three minutes, maybe twenty. He was too happy to bother keeping track of time.

Q leaned back. "Ummmm . . . " he glanced around at his environment. "I'm not sure . . . I guess let's find out. I-I'm alive, right?"

"Uh-huh," Eliot confirmed with a massive smile.

"Okay. Neat."

With that, El sat still and let Quentin hold onto his shoulder as he tried to lift himself into a standing position.

The man made it halfway, then stopped and shook his head. "I don't think so," he sighed, wobbling back down with Eliot's help. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Eliot whispered, resting his forehead against Q's, still smiling. "There's no rush."

"Are you sure?" Q mirrored his friend's expression with a quiet giggle. "I don't wanna make you late for any meetings."

"Well I am an  _important man,"_ Eliot nodded. "But I cleared my schedule for this."

At that moment he noticed something. The way Quentin was looking at him . . . it felt familiar . . .

 _This is it!_ he realized.  _This is how Q looked the day he asked *that question* . . . 'what if we gave it a shot?'_

And then he remembered what he said to Memory Q right after kissing him.  _When I'm braver . . . when I'm braver . . ._

"Rejecting you was the stupidest thing I've ever done," Eliot blurted out before the words even had time to filter through his brain. "The worst thing. I-I'd-I'd give anything to take it back! And . . ."

At that point his mind jumped into the fray with actual thoughts.  _It might be too soon for this conversation. He may still be too disoriented._

So Eliot fell silent, waiting for a reaction. He watched as Q's head tilted and the expression on his face seemed to wobble somewhere between optimistic and puzzled.

_What if he doesn't even remember that day?_

A cold doubt began clawing at his heart.

_Or he does, but he's decided I was right the first time, so now he's thinking of a way to turn me down gently?_

The doubt grew colder . . .

Clawed deeper . . .

He was barely a split second away from shrugging the whole thing off as a tasteless joke and changing the subject when a final frantic rush of confidence pushed its way beyond the grip of those cold claws.

"Do you still wanna be with me?" he asked.

As soon as the words left his mouth Q's eyes lit up, and Eliot knew that his world was back in proper order for the first time in ages."Good," was all he could say before Quentin launched into his arms, sighing happily into a long overdue kiss. Or kiss _es,_ more accurately.

With what little strength he had, Q climbed into Eliot's lap and went on kissing the man. "So we  _are_ back on, right?" He gasped when they finally came up for air. "That's like . . that's a settled thing?"

"I'm in if you're in," Eliot promised, still placing tiny kisses all over Q's face and throat. "A hundred percent."

El had enough sense to realize there was no way in hell Q would have the strength for any serious action. So instead of attempting something so obviously doomed to failure, he squirmed and maneuvered both of their bodies until he was resting against the tub, legs outstretched, and Q was settled against him.

"Comfortable?" He asked.

"I guess," Quentin replied with a slight crinkle in his forehead. "But I . . . there's just . . . I . . ."

_Shit! He's alive two seconds and there's already a problem!_

Q pushed away just far enough to look Eliot directly in the eye. "Eliot, why are we in a bathtub?"

El chuckled and let out a long sigh of relief. "It was part of the spell to bring you back, and the whole story is  _crazy complicated."_

"Oh." Q nodded, returning to settle against Eliot's chest. "Save it for later then. I can't handle complicated right now."

"Okay." El went on combing his fingers through Quentin's hair. "So, um . . . should this be a quiet time?"

"Nah," the other man shook his head. "Quiet is too boring." He slung an arm around El's waist and snuggled close. "Sing me something, maybe?"

"I would love to," Eliot grinned. "Any requests?"

Q shrugged. "I don't know. Something fun."

He mulled over the myriad of options . . . "How do we feel about old school?"

"We love old school." Quentin replied.

Eliot committed to a choice and launched into the somewhat adjusted version of a classic. He decided to approach the lyrics as a quiet plea rather than upbeat demand:

" _Rescue me,"_ he sang softly.

" _take me in your arms,"_

He helped Q squirm into a more comfortable position, and went on:

" _Rescue me._

_I want your tender charms._

' _Cause I'm lonely,_

_and I'm blue._

_I need you,_

_and your love too._

_Come on and rescue me."_

"Mmmmmm," Quentin breathed, "good choice. And nice cover, too."

El could  _feel him_ grinning, but continued the song without comment.

" _Come on baby . . . and rescue me._

_Come on baby, please rescue me._

' _Cause I need you . . . by my side._

_Can't you see that I'm lonely?"_

Q joined him for the next verse, and Eliot was  _thrilled_ by the voice he heard. A steady, robust cadence. An  _alive_ cadence.

" _Rescue me,_

_Come on and take my heart._

_take your love,_

_and conquer every part . . ."_

They paused and, without any discussion, each made the decision at that moment to return the song to its original, upbeat tempo:

"' _Cause I'm lonely!_

_And I'm blue!_

_I need you,_

_and your love too!_

_Come on and rescue me!"_

"Nice job, us!" Q laughed, raising his hand for a quick high five. "We should tour."

"Yes," Eliot nodded, smiling hard enough to strain muscles. "You and me, Q. We'll hit the road."

"Mmhm," Quentin agreed. "Just as soon as I can walk again."

From then on they tested Quentin's ability to stand up every ten minutes or so.

Eventually he managed it with some help from Eliot, and with that accomplished, they moved the goalpost.

_And for our next trick . . . we step out of the tub!_

Which took considerably more assistance on Eliot's part.

He did the work without complaint, but El could tell it embarrassed Quentin more than a little to have his body propped up and guided around like a baby. Too helpless and wobbly to get around without watchful guidance.

So Eliot decided to go on singing. Partly to distract Q from current circumstances, and also to lend things a little tinge of normalcy.

 _This could even be fun, given the right playlist,_ Eliot decided. _So no heavy songs, no depressing songs . . . pretty much NOTHING by Pearl Jam or Nirvana._

They went through one song after another, with Eliot all the while tracking Q's progress, but saying nothing aloud.

_Two steps without help . . . three . . . four . . ._

True the progress was slow to evolve, but in the meantime they had a vast catalog of songs to keep them occupied.

Eventually El took the lead on  _Video Killed the Radio Star_ while he helped Quentin get dressed.

"Good thing you thought to bring clothes," said Q, bracing himself against a wall while Eliot guided his left leg into a pair of pants.

"I didn't." Eliot said as he pulled up and secured the pants around Q's waist. "This was New Mom's idea."

For what felt like the millionth time, Quentin frowned. "Did I hear that right? New Mom?"

"You did," El chirped. "Remember the Witch of The Darkling Woods? She scored the vial of your blood that one time?"

"Mmhmmmm," Q nodded, still confused.

"Well, it turns out under several layers of 'bitch,' she's actually great." He slid shirtsleeves onto Q's arms. "So I adopted her. She's my Mom now."

"Huh, wow . . . I leave town for a  _little while_ and everything changes."

Q buttoned the shirt by himself, but Eliot kept his hands hovering at the man's waist in case of sudden collapse or loss of balance. Though a lot of progress had been made over the last several hours, they still weren't fully returned to 'grown man' territory in terms of self-support.

"We're not far from the Portal," Eliot assured him. "It's just on the other side of the Castle."

 _Oh shit._ He thought.  _The Castle!_ It struck Eliot like lightening that he'd forgotten everything else the moment Q returned.  _Everything._

And now his still fragile man was about to see Whitespire in . . . well, maybe not  _absolute ruin,_ but certainly a lot of distress. "Okaaaaaay, so um, before we leave the shed . . . about Whitespire-"

"Is it fucked up?" Q interrupted.

Eliot frowned. "You know what's been going on?"

"Noooooo," Quentin drawled, shaking his head. "No, I . . . I don't know, but . . . as soon as you mentioned the Castle I had this weird . . . like a . . . a feeling I . . ."

"Like you remember more than you think you do?" Eliot guessed, flashing back to the scroll.

"Yeah," replied Q, nodding slowly. "And blood magic can get it back."

Eliot's mouth set in a straight, stubborn line. "Good to know, but that shit is gonna have to wait."

Q began to object, but didn't get a single word out.

"You are in no condition to handle more trauma right now," Eliot insisted. "So whatever the fuck memories you've got locked in there? We will deal with them when you're back to normal!"

They made their way out of the north shed. Q holding onto Eliot's shoulder for stability while El kept an arm hovering at his back, ready to lend support if needed.

"Back to normal," Quentin chuckled. "So just out of curiosity, what is your definition of  _normal?"_

"Let's start with you walking around and putting on clothes by yourself, okay?" The man replied with a lopsided smile. "Can we clear that bar, at least, before digging up a bunch of repressed memories?"

 _I don't think they're repressed,_ Q thought to himself.  _I think the Library took them from me. Or tried to._ But he said nothing. It wasn't the right time. So instead he changed the subject. "Where are we going, by the way?"

"Ruth's-that's New Mom's name. Her house."

"Do we need to get there like,  _right now?"_ Quentin asked. "I'd rather walk than take a Portal, if you don't mind. I need exercise. And practice," he added with a long groan. "Walking still feels super weird."

"Walking is fine." El stopped and wrapped his arms around Q's midsection. "Honestly, I don't care if it takes us a week. We'll camp."

"A week? From Whitespire to the Darkling Woods?" asked Quentin, puzzled. "I didn't think they were so far apart."

"They're not," Eliot replied with a fond sort of _smirk._ "You're just slow as all fuck right now."

Q shot him a scolding glare, which was somewhat undercut when he rose up on tiptoe to kiss the man.

Several minutes later they were wandering very,  _very slowly_ along the path to the Darkling Woods, chatting about various non-Library or war-related topics.

El was determined to keep things light and breezy for as long as possible.

"Oh shit, I forgot to mention! I brought a new friend along with me from earth."

"New friend?" Quentin raised an eyebrow.

"Craig," Said Eliot with a soft smile. "He's the sweetest guy, you'll love him."

"Uh-huuuuuh." The corners of Q's mouth twitched into a teasing grin.

El grinned back. "And what is  _that look_  about?"

"Just uh," Q giggled. "I've met you, soooooo . . . how's the sex?"

"Good and steadily improving," Eliot replied casually without missing a beat. "Poor guy didn't have much experience before me, but he learns fast." El moved behind Quentin in the form of a standing big spoon as he continued to shuffle them down the path. "And it turns out I function very well in a . . .  _professorial_ capacity."

"Naughty professor," Q heaved a deep sigh. "Like  _you_ really needed another fantasy."

El leaned around Quentin's body enough to get a clear look at the man's face. "I hope you're not upset with me," he said. "I would have asked permission, but you were being all dead and standoff-ish."

"Not mad," Q assured him with a little smile, pulling Eliot's arms tighter around him and threading their fingers together. "Anyhow, I guess technically when I died I was wi-OH  _FUCK!"_ He bellowed suddenly, eyes blown wide. "I got back with Alice, didn't I?!"

Eliot collapsed to the ground instantly, laughing his ass off. He couldn't help it.

"Shit!" Q yelped at the sudden loss of support, tumbling after Eliot. "Man down! Man down!"

It took a minute for either one of them to stop laughing so hard, but as El wiped away tears he managed to choke out a reply: "Y-yes you did. You did that. Y-you-" the laughter threatened to take over again, but he fought it back. "You  _spectacular_ needy fool!"

"Right," said Quentin with a sarcastic snort, kicking Eliot's legs several times as he spoke. "You brought me back from the  _dead,_ but  _I'm_ the needy one! Sure!"

El delivered a few gentle return kicks, then the two men sat there for several more minutes, catching their breath.

"Goddamniiiiiiiit!" Q whined after a long silence. "Do you think dying counts as a default breakup?"

Eliot sighed as he rose to his feet and reached down to help Q. "An actual conversation is probably in order," he said, "but I wouldn't worry too much . . . "

The pair resumed their slow journey.

". . . Alice is a smart girl, I think she gets the idea that our lifetime together tops your couple of months or whatever."

"Does she?" Q looked up at Eliot, his eyes narrowing. "And how would she, 'get that idea,' Eliot?"

El reached out to pluck and carefully inspect a tree blossom.

" _Eliot!"_

"Hm?" The man responded innocently, tossing aside the small flower.

" . . . Were you an asshole?"

_Oh, COME ON!_

After a brief pause, El scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I may have been a  _teeny bit_  rude."

"I can't leave you alone for a second," Q grumbled as they crossed over the threshold into the never-sunlit the territory of the Darkling Woods.

For the fourth night running Ruth and Craig pulled chairs outside and waited, trying to ignore the persistent gnaw of anxiety. Every once in a while a Nightwing or two would swoop in and hum something familiar. They always joined in, grateful for the distraction.

That night a pair of large, brilliant silver butterflies soared in circles around the garden, humming long, low tones while half a dozen smaller blue and purple Nightwings took higher, string-like notes.

"Mmmmm," Ruth mused, her head fallen sleepily against the chair. "I know this one."

"Me too." Craig echoed, drawing a deep, slow breath.

The two looked at one another, nodded, and Craig took the opening lyrics:

" _When the night_

_has come,_

_and the land is dark,_

_and the moon_

_is the only_

_light we'll see . . ."_

Ruth took the next verse:

" _No I won't_

_be afraid._

_Oh I won't_

_be afraid._

_Just as long . . ._

_as you stand . . ._

_stand by me."_

And the two of them sang the chorus together:

" _So darling, darling, stand_

_by me. Ooooooh, stand._

_Byyyyy me. Oooooh, stand._

_Stand by me. Stand by me._

_If the sky that we look upon_

_should tumble and fall,_

_or the mountains should crumble_

_to the sea . . ._

_I won't cry. I won't cry._

_No I woooon't_

_shed a tear._

_Just as long as you stand,_

_stand by me."_

They each took a breath, both ready to belt out the next chorus, when a third voice suddenly cut through the Nightwing's low hum.

" _And darling, darling staaaand_

_byyyyyy me. Oh, staaaaand_

_by me. Oh, stand now,_

_stand by me! Stand by me!"_

The man's voice was strong and full of joy. Even victory.

"ELIOT!" Ruth shrieked. Though still unable to see him, she  _raced_ down her garden path and into the woods.

Meanwhile, Nightwings both high pitched and low went on humming the song's orchestral arrangement.

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: it's all blood magic, strangeness, and yet more singing.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> 1\. Crying, by Roy Orbison  
> 2\. I'll Stand By You, by The Pretenders  
> 3\. Rescue Me, by Fontalla Bass  
> 4\. Stand By Me, by Ben E. King
> 
> **If any of you haven't heard these songs before, I highly recommend checking them out. This chapter is better when you know what the original songs sound like rather than just reading them in print.**


	10. Rules and Rebels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musical, Pt.2-A few flashbacks, Kady and Penny40's last tango, and Ruth and Craig meet Quentin.

In a place where time behaved strangely and matter didn't matter, Penny40 watched as books flew off their shelves and either promptly caught fire, or fluttered around the room for a bit, smoldering. Then caught fire.

"So, what exactly am I watching right now?" he asked the tall, dark haired woman beside him.

The corner of Kady's mouth slid into a smile. "If the Library wanted to spy on us, in theory all they'd have to do is read our books, right? But we've gone full mutiny here, Penny, and it seems like the Library didn't see it coming  _at all._

"Soooooo . . . ?"

"So maybe we all veered way of course and our books don't have useful intel, but just in case?" She jerked her chin toward the hundreds and hundreds of bookshelves. "What you are watching right now is a shitload of Magicians going off-grid."

The room was at least twice the size of a football field, but every thirty seconds or so another book took flight, and others jittered on their shelf as though excited.

 _Still smart as all fuck,_ thought Penny.

He was proud of her.

This person he loved in a previous life, now stepping up to lead not just a war, but a war against  _The Library._  An entity that had been basically omnipotent for eons,maybe even all of human existence. And here she stood, leading the charge with some random army of Magicians thinking-no,  _believing-_ that they could tear it all down and rebuild something new?

 _I'm scared shitless, and look at her,_ he thought.  _She's got this._ "When do we spring into action?" He asked.

Kady sighed. "Well, there are three hundred and twelve Magicians we'd be completely fucked without. Like,  _major_  key players for the rebellion _._ So I need to make absolutely sure  _their books_  are all dust before we move."

"Is that why the other Penny told me to link everyone up to their books?" He asked. Until a few hours ago using the 23rd 'him' had been the only way to pass information back and forth. Penny wasn't sure how Kady's army (if it could be called that) had pulled off breaking so many fundamental laws of Underworld Operations, but he knew it must have taken a  _huge_ amount of magic. Like a battery the size of fuckin' Saturn.

"Yeah, that's why," Kady confirmed. "Those three hundred and twelve I mentioned are linked directly to me and Alice, so we'll know when their books are toast. The second it's done, we're a go, and we move fast. Me and Alice will knock out the spellsource long enough to get our shit done, you just worry about finding Quentin and getting him to his ticket home before our magic gives out." She shot Penny a sidelong glance. "Haul  _serious ass,_ okay?"

Penny groaned. "Kady are we sure this-"

"Dude, we are so far beyond the point of backing down now!" She cut him off, somewhat angrily. "So, once again: Alice and I drum up a shit ton of distraction, rescue the Concept, and you manage your thing. Full stop."

"But this is so fucking  _huge,_ Kady!"The man winced, a hand on his forehead as if trying to massage away the worry. "What if we're not re-"

"Penny I swear to  _Christ_ , if you fuck us over-" she stepped into his personal space, steeled her posture, and locked her eyes to his. "If you even  _think_ about fucking us over . . ."

"I'd never." Penny said with a deep sigh. "I'm down with the cause, you know that."

"Then why're you suddenly all skittish?" Kady frowned.

"Sometimes I just . . . I get a little bit worried that maybe we've jumped the gun here," he shrugged. "Taking it all on at once."

"You don't remember what it was like to be human anymore, do you?" The woman asked, her voice barely above a whisper. "How unfair and  _frustrating_ it is to be completely clueless, and helpless, and . . ."

As his former lover went on describing the human condition, Penny opened his mouth to speak. To defend himself.

But he couldn't think of what to say.

 _I know I *enjoyed* being human,_ he thought.  _And being in love . . . but . . ._

Kady moved even closer, so they were almost nose-to-nose. "The bottom line here? If you double cross us, the way I feel about you will mean _nothing._ Less than nothing. Our Army will obliterate you, and I will help."

"I'm on your side," Penny assured her once again. "I have my concerns, but I've seen enough down here to know . . ." he trailed off. There really was no 'nutshell version' of all the shit he knew. "I'm on board, Kady. You can trust that."

Since there was nothing more between them to discuss and miles to go before the finish line, the Kady turned around and left without another word. She opened up the psychic link between herself and Alice to find the other woman, and it didn't take long before she saw a door materialize in what looked like a bare cement wall.

"You found the Redundancy Room," Kady mused as the door swung closed behind her. "Impressive."

She looked around at the countless stacks books, none of them arranged in any particular order. Some of the stacks ran nearly floor-to-ceiling, and most were covered in dust. Even more books lay in scattered heaps around the room.

"Makes sense, right?" said Alice without looking up from her work, speed reading through book after book. "This room is a perfect illustration of why The All wants to consume every concept in existence."

"Mmhmmmm," Kady nodded, still gazing at all the towering mess. "Every fuckin' one. Hungry little bastard, huh?"

Alice easily carried on their conversation whilst speed reading. "As soon as the spellsource is knocked out I can just absorb the rest of these." She glanced around the room. "It shouldn't take me more than a minute, if that."

They both realized that the redundant books may or may not contain anything useful, but as long as their mission gave them the opportunity, Alice figured . . . why the hell not find out for sure?

"Awesome. You finish your book thing, and then it's fucking  _on!"_ Kady grinned in spite of their dire circumstances. "Phosphoromancy and Voxmancy, bitches. Crazy lights, loud noise," she couldn't help but laugh. "Those buttoned down corporate-ass Library drones are gonna lose their  _minds!"_

Alice suddenly stopped reading and looked up. "You wrote a will before we left earth, right?"

"Duh. It's official policy." Kady reminded her battle buddy. "Remember, we voted? Last month?"

"Oh right." Alice shook her head and returned to the task at hand. She got through four more books before the lights kicked off and the room plunged into pitch black.

"Spellsource  _out!_  This is it!" Kady could hear the excitement in Alice's voice. "What song did you pick?"

"You'll see." Kady replied with a sparkling smile no one could see. "But I'm gonna crush it. You just focus on fucking up the light."

Moments later a strobe began to flash. Fast then slow, fast then slow,  _blindingly fast,_ then slower, all according to the motion of Alice's well-practiced hands. The goal was simple. No pattern, no rhyme or reason, just strange and disorienting. This was the easy part as far as Alice was concerned. Barely harder than blinking.

 _Crazy show,_ Kady thought.  _Kinda perfect for a song like this, though._ She took a deep breath, and did her thing.

" _One pill makes you larger,_

_and one pill makes you small._

_And the ones that_

_mother gives you don't do_

_anything at all . . ._

_Go ask Alice!_

_When she's ten feet tall."_

Even through the confusion of flashing lights, Kady could see Alice smile just a bit.

" _And if you go_

_chasing rabbits,_

_and you know you're going to faaaaall,_

_tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar_

_haaaaas given you the caaaaaall._

_And call Alice!_

_When she was just small."_

And then came the point of the song where the volume  _really_ started ramping up . . .

" _When the men on the chessboard_

_get up and tell you where to gooooooo,_

_and you've just had some kind of mushroom,_

_and your mind is moving looooooow?_

_Go ask Aliiiiiiiiice!_

_I think she'll knooooooow . . ._

_When logic, and proportion_

_have fallen sloppy dead_

_and the White Knight is talking backwards_

_and the Red Queen's "off with her heeeeeaaaaad . . ."_

_Remembeeeeeer_

_what the dormouse saaaaaaaaiiiiiiiid!_

Kady drew the most massive breath she could, and belted out the final lines with everything her lungs could give.

_Feed your heeeeeeaaaaad!_

_Feed your heeeeeeaaaaad!"_

"Whew," She doubled over finally, bracing her hands on her knees. "I haven't sung that song in ages, those last notes are  _intense!"_  She stood up straight and did a quick series of poppers to keep her song going on a loop.

"Okay, I've got the light show on lock, too," Alice announced with a resolute nod and squared shoulders. "We have  _one shot_  at this, Kady."

"We fail, we're fucked," the other woman finished, her tone weirdly casual. Like they were just out on the town for a weekend lark. "Fun times. Let's go."

The moment Kady walked away from him, Penny40 had gotten down to his side of the mission. Which turned out to be far more obnoxious than he anticipated.

"How much have you seen?" He yelled at the foppy-haired man, shaking him by the shoulders. "How much? Enough? What can we fucking  _use,_ Quentin?!"

Q looked around with an unfocused gaze like a senile old man losing track of his own thoughts every other second. "I, uh . . . a lot, um . . . a lot. I know it, I . . . I just . . . something keeps finding me, Penny . . ." he turned his gaze to other man, a distant hint of fear in his eyes. "And, and then . . . I can't move, and then it-it's all gone, it's like-"

_There's no time for this!_

"Whatever, fine, okay," Penny interrupted. "So, here's the good news: blood magic can get your memories back. But we're not gonna worry about that shit right now."

"We're not?" Q frowned.

"Nah, right now there's this dead guy, and he's-" Penny paused, quickly evaluating the practicalities of their situation. "Y'know what, I can't explain it all right now, we're in kind of a time crunch. So just follow me, and  _do not_ wander off again! Seriously!"

"Uh-huh."

 _Fuuuuuuuuuck!_ Penny fumed quietly every time Q vanished in a blink.  _HOW?! . . . I gotta get this done before the spellsource kicks on again!_

The thought of disappointing Kady made him feel . . . well, it was a nearly human feeling, whatever that might mean. If anything. He wasn't sure.

_No time to dwell on it anyhow._

Instead he focused on the annoying task of hunting down Quentin over and over and over again. After a while, he started to wonder if maybe the squirrely little fuck was actually attached to a black hole that he could jump into and out of at will.

_It would explain a lot._

Still, in the back of his mind was the flickering hope that he'd get to see Kady again before she returned to earth. Just for the sake of seeing her.

It was a  _personal_ want.

In other words, a feeling he could barely remember.

Eventually Penny  _did_  manage to deliver Quentin to his ticket.

 _If there was a way for *me* to go back, would I do it?_ He wondered.  _If I could . . . would I want to?_

In spite of his lingering affection for Kady, he doubted it. Deep down, he wanted to stay. To care for and help rebuild whatever mess remained of the Library after the war ended.

_Still though. I'm happy for Quentin. I wonder how Eliot did it?_

"ELIOT!" Ruth shouted, charging through the forest as Nightwings drifted through the air all around her.

He was singing. She could hear his voice clear as a bell, and fully expected at any moment to spot at least a  _silhouette_ of her tall, slender boy. But she wouldn't feel completely at ease until setting eyes on him up close. So went on running wildly toward the sound of 'Stand By Me' lyrics.

 _He sounds happy, doesn't he?_ She thought. _The spell *must have* worked!_

Seconds later she saw him emerge over a hill.

"Eliot!"

Quentin stumbled a bit as the woman caught Eliot in a tackle-hug, forcing El to let go of his hand.

_Good thing I've mostly got my balance back._

And there he stood, a little wobbly on his still-new legs, patiently waiting his turn to be acknowledged.

"It's nice to see you too, Ruth." Eliot said with a broad smile, wrapping his arms around the woman's shoulders.

"We've been so worried about you!" Ruth fussed. "Do you know it's been nearly a week?-Oh never mind that, let's have a look at you!" she took a step back, flinging El's hands out wide apart. "Look at that big smile!"

Eliot giggled almost bashfully. "Ahem. Yes. So, Ruth, allow me to introduce . . ."

 _He sounds so formal_ Quentin thought.  _Like he's trying to impress an *actual mom.*_

"Quentin Coldwater, of course." Ruth moved to stand in front of the smaller man, carefully looking him over head to toe. "We barely spoke that time I took the vial of your blood, it's good to have a proper introduction." She took his hand and gave it a vigorous shake.

"Good to meet you," Q said with a polite nod.

"My aren't you just . . ." the woman looked him over a few more times. "Well Eliot loves you so much, I'm sure you'll grow on me. Let's all have a nice tea!" she chirped, clapping her hands with a broad smile as she turned to lead the way.

Eliot leaned close to Q's ear as they followed dutifully behind her. "I told you about the layers of 'bitch,' right?"

"Yes, and thank you for that warning." Q whispered back. "How long did it take before she was nice to you?"

"Any day now," El grinned and crossed his fingers. "Seriously though, I think the secret is just not to wilt away, and sass her right back." He raised his voice loud. "Mommy respects sass!"

Ruth shot him a look over her shoulder, but made no comment.

 _Can I pull off sass?_ Quentin wondered, nervous and surprised at how much he wanted to win Ruth's approval.

Her  _enthused_ approval.

Based on what little Eliot had told him over the years about his  _real mom,_  a face-to-face meeting with her probably would've been a lot easier. He'd just tell her that Eliot was a fantastic human who deserved to be raised by someone a thousand times better than her, and topped it off with a solid 'fuck you.'

A first and last meeting.

This thing with Ruth was way more stressful. El truly was the kind of guy who bonded quickly, as he'd told Quentin the day they met, and Q could plainly see that he did actually  _love_ this oddball character of a woman.

_She'll like me eventually, right? I'm likable(?) . . . shit, I hope Craig is easier to win over!_

It had taken him less than five minutes to get that Eliot more than adored this 'Craig Conner' person, so even if he didn't end up on Quentin's personal 'wanna fuck' list, he at least wanted to like the guy.

Owing to their successful relationship with Arielle (which he was sure would have lasted through their entire fifty years together if only she'd lived) Q knew they could easily navigate poly dynamics, no big deal. But it did all sorta hinge on him and Craig getting along.

 _He couldn't possibly be an asshole,_ Q told himself.  _Not if Eliot likes him so much._  In fact, based on El's description, he was expecting to meet what would happen if James Bond and a Teddy Bear had a baby.

A few hours later he was relieved to find that Craig pretty much lived up to his partner's glowing description. Sweet, sense of humor, easygoing, and with juuuuuust the right amount of ego to stand alongside Eliot's grandiose persona and not vanish.

 _Not everyone can pull that off,_ Q thought with an inward chuckle.

And to cinch the deal Craig  _clearly_ loved seeing Eliot in love, which set Quentin completely at ease. "So, El didn't actually tell me how you two met," he said as they sat around Ruth's table sipping tea and eating an assortment of cookies. "What's that story?"

Craig cleared his throat and started mentally flipping through a catalog of true-yet-cleaned-up versions of the story. "Oh, we . . . met at a charity dinner." Is what he went with.

"He bought me," Eliot filled in breezily, draping an arm over Q's shoulders and gently playing at the fabric of his shirtsleeve. "Not part of my original 'bring-you-back' plan, obviously. But some details went wrong and I ended up needing a lotta quick cash. So I improvised," he shrugged and gave his returned love a quick kiss on the forehead. "I went hunting for some random rich guy to proposition, and found  _this one."_ He swept his hand across the table toward Craig.

Baffled,  _baffled_ Craig.

 _How . . . what the . . . and Quentin seems . . . enamored (?) Huh?_ He watched the men continue to gaze at one another as though both recalling a sentimental moment.  _I am extremely confused . . ._

"What a cute story," Quentin said with a soft chuckle. He and Eliot shared a quick kiss, and sat back, waiting for Craig to tack a few words onto his puzzled look.

Mouth twitching. Eyebrows squirming.

 _We're mean,_ thought Q.

 _This is fucking ADORABLE!_ Thought Eliot.

Meanwhile, Ruth went on nibbling her cookie as if the current topic of conversation was the weather, or favorite pets.

"I told you, Craig," Eliot cooed affectionately, "the rules for sex and relationships are a hell of a lot different in here Fillory."

"Etiquette more than rules," Ruth chimed in around a mouthful of cookie, which she washed down with a swig of lukewarm tea. "We don't make any fuss or stupid laws about how people conduct their business. What a damn waste!" She shook her head. "Marry a whole fleet of people if you'd like, the average Fillorian citizen won't care one snit!"

"What she said," Q agreed, pointing to the inscrutable woman.

The comment won him a tiny smile and nod.

_She's starting to like you! It's happening!_

"Thoughts?" Asked Eliot. "Feedback? Opinions?"

Craig mulled over the question as the initial surprise dissolved. "Well . . . I think . . . I think if more plain ol' regular earth people knew about this place, that kind of freedom alone would make for an  _extraordinary_ tourist industry."

Q and Ruth busted out laughing, and Eliot held out his teacup for a toast. "Now that is how a rich man thinks!"

"Indeed!" Ruth gulped down the last of her tea. "And on that note-" She and Craig both rose from their seats in tandem, and linked arms. "Gentlemen, we've arranged for accommodations at the North Mountain Pixie Colonies." She turned to the man at her side. "Shall we?"

"We shall."

The cheery twosome gave El and Quentin a smart bow.

"You boys get four days to yourselves," Ruth explained. "And when Craig and I return from our excursion we'll see if I can break into your mind, Mister Quentin. Fetch a few useful memories."

Eliot was about to thank Ruth when Q cut him off with:

"Is it really a good idea to wait if I do have  _important_ information?"

 _Please have a good counter-argument, Ruth! Pleeeeeaaaaase,_ Eliot whined internally. He really wanted those four days of alone time.

"I am an excellent Blood Magician, young man," She informed Quentin. "But it's still your mind. I can only pull those memories up so far, then  _you're_ the one who'll have to grab on and drag themall the way back. It won't be easy."

"Oh," Q and Eliot mused in unison.

"Yes dear, It's going to take a  _great deal_ of energy and magic on your part, and right now you still wobble on your own damn legs. Frankly, four days may not even be enough."

Craig helped her on with a thick grey shawl as she continued to explain.

"Besides, Eliot here spent a very long time working to bring you back-and took far too many risks along the way as far as I'm concerned. So I don't care if the entire sky catches fire, the two of you will stay right here, watch the flames, and trust the rest of us handle it."

Craig once again looped his arm through Ruth's. "And on that note, we'll see you in four days."

"Um, luggage?" Eliot called after them as they marched toward the door.

Craig turned around and flashed a delighted, toothy smile. "Already there. We planned ahead."

As soon as the door shut, Q swung himself up on the table, a leg on either side of Eliot. "Four days," he breathed. "How are you with carpentry?"

"Huh?" El frowned.  _THAT'S his first thought? Did the resurrection spell cause brain damage or something?_

Quentin rolled his eyes. "I mean if we broke-for instance- _this table . . ._ would it be toast, or could you fix it?"

"I see," Eliot purred, half-standing to lean over as the other man tilted back. "So, I do like where your mind is at, a lot. But you  _are_ still kinda weak, so . . . maybe we should be a little cautious about sex?"

"Fuck caution!" Q scoffed. He immediately tried to pull Eliot closer, but was met with uncharacteristic resistance.  _What the HELL?_

"Seriously, what if you haven't recovered enough for-" El drew a sharp breath when Quentin wrapped an arm around his torso and  _bucked_ without warning. "O- _kay!_  K, yeah, that . . . feels pretty recovered. Very healthy."

"I know my limits," Q assured him quietly as he leaned back again, this time pleased when El allowed himself to be pulled along. "I'm also still wearing pants, which is  _super annoying."_

It turned out the table  _was_ sturdy enough to handle at least the partial weight of two grown men. Over the course of four days every stick of furniture managed to survive. Some of Ruth's lovely flower garden got crushed, but everything else remained intact.

Time moves strangely . . .

And matter doesn't matter . . .

Penny paced, wondering why the place was still dark, save for the glow of burning books still soaring around the room.

 _What if they failed?_ He thought.  _Shit, I hope they're okay!_

A few minutes later the glow of firelight illuminated Kady's face as she entered the room.

"Did you do it?"

Kady nodded. "We got the Concept. Alice and a few of our people are taking it back to-uh . . . to a safehouse. It's better if you don't know where." She drew a shaky breath. "So what about your thing?"

Penny brushed his hands together as if shaking off dust. "All done. Quentin is officially topside. The next time you see Eliot, tell him I'm impressed."

Kady stood silent, arms crossed, leaning her weight on one foot. "Christ, you're not even gonna  _try_ to come back, are you? When all this is over?"

"No," Penny shook his head. "Sorry, but no. I'm not."

The room's dim lighting couldn't hide Kady's pained expression. Tensed jaw and teary eyes. "Then . . . I think this should be the last time we see each other," she said. "We can communicate through an intermediary if we need to. Okay?"

Looking at her in that moment, Penny felt a pang of something from his previous life. A kind of quiet grief for a future that died when he did.

"Agreed." He nodded. "Yeah." He didn't want to leave things between them so formal, or cold. So he gave her the first fond compliment that came to mind. The obvious one. "Great song, by the way. Gotta love Grace Slick."

The corners of Kady's mouth turned up in a weak half-smile. "Hey, remember that time we got crazy drunk in my room and spent the whole night straight up . . ." she stopped and chuckled, "we straight up  _ballroom danced_  around the room? Like, even all up on the furniture and shit, singing at the top of our lungs? . . . Remember that?"

"Yeah. Helluva night." Penny grinned, reflecting on the absurd, tequila-soaked memory. "Hey, would it be okay if, um . . . if I asked for one last song? Y'know, one for the road?"

Kady swallowed the small lump in her throat, and nodded yes. "Sure. Anything in particular you'd like to hear?"

"Nah," Penny shrugged. "Just whatever you think fits the moment."

Kady wrung out her arms and closed her eyes, sorting through options. It took her only seconds to decide. "Got it," she said. "But I'll need your help. And I'm skipping some of it 'cause it's not . . . whatever, I'm skipping some. Just pay attention and follow my cues."

"Deal." Penny stepped back a few paces as if to move out of Kady's spotlight.

Kady, meanwhile, felt as though the whole universe had collapsed to the size of that large, disheveled room. Stark, bare walls. Burning books flying all around. Shelf after shelf fallen over haphazard, like toppled dominoes.

" _Every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never coming 'round."_ Kady began, then nodded to Penny and waited.

Penny realized almost right away what his role would be in this show. Their final interaction.  _"Turn around . . ."_

"Good," said Kady, then continued the song.  _"Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears."_

" _Turn around,"_ Penny repeated, kicking it up half an octave.

" _Every now and then I get a little bit nervous that the best of all the years have gone by."_

" _Turn around,"_

" _Every now and then I get a little bit terrified and then I see the look in your eyes."_

" _Turn around, bright eyes."_ Another octave up.

Kady took a small step toward him.  _"Every now and then I fall apart."_

" _Turn around, bright eyes!"_

" _Every now and then I fall apart!"_

Penny took her hand and slipped an arm around her waist, palm pressed to her back. "Too much?" He asked cautiously. "It felt appropriate, but I can back the fuck off if-"

Kady stepped into the pose and steered them into a wide left-step and spin.  _"And I need you now tonight. And I need you more than ever!"_

Penny guided them onto a fallen bookshelf, the lowest of several resting in crooked tiers.

" _And if you only hold me tight,"_ they sang in unison,  _"we'll be holding on forever."_

Kady took the next lines solo.  _"And we'll only be making it right, 'cause we'll never be wrong. Together we can make it to the end of the line, your love is like a shadow on me all of the time-"_ She paused for just a blink to recall the next lyrics.  _"I don't know what to do, I'm always in the dark-"_

Again Penny joined in.  _"We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks! I really need you tonight!"_ He guided them all over, up and down the fallen bookshelves as they sang. The way they danced, so fluid and easy? It reminded him of the old Astaire and Rogers movies he used to watch on tv at two in the morning, whatever obscure classics channel, when he was high as all fuck.  _"Forever's gonna start tonight. Forever's gonna start tonight . . ."_

Kady nodded at him, and he understood. The next lines were his alone.

" _Once upon a time I was falling in love . . . now I'm only falling apart. There's nothing I can do. A total eclipse of the heart."_

And then it was Kady's turn.  _"Once upon a time there was light in my life, but now there's only love in the dark . . . nothing I can say, a total eclipse of the heart."_

Neither one of them seemed willing to take on the next part, so Penny danced them back to level ground.

A heavy silence settled around them for a moment.

Then they let out a breath, and sang one last line together.

" _Nothing I can say . . . a total eclipse of the heart."_

"Good choice," Penny said softly.

"Thanks," Kady whispered. "The dancing thing was a nice touch, too. Good call."

"Thanks."

She shifted on her feet, glancing all around the room. "I'm, I don't . . . I'm not really sure how to say goodbye here, Penny. How the fuck do we say goodbye?"

Penny backed away with a fond, lopsided smile on his face. "Just turn around."

 _I guess we'll call that closure._ Kady returned his smile, and left without another word.

Penny placed hands in his pockets and watched as, one by one, burning books slowly turned to soft little rains of ash.

" _Every now and then I fall apart . . ."_ He wasn't sure why he sang the line as he walked out of the ruined room, it just felt appropriate. "Weird times, man," he mused aloud to the empty hallway. "Weird, weird times."

Elsewhere in their  _deeply weird_  universe, a lazy couple lay snuggled together on an outdoor cot chatting about various topics, most of them silly.

"I mean . . . am I  _technically_ a zombie now?" Quentin wondered.

Eliot giggled, combing his fingers through Q's hair. "Noooooo," he gently assured the other man. "You're built out of my blood and some other dude's bones, it's not like I reanimated your corpse." He rested his chin atop Q's head and sighed happily. "So, not a zombie. Yay for loopholes."

 _Some other guy's bones . . . some other guy's bones . . ._ Quentin frowned, his brain itching. "Cyrus," he said. "The bone guy's name was Cyrus. Don't ask me how the fuck I know that, but yeah. That was his name, I'm sure of it."

"Hm," Eliot mulled over the tidbit. "Unknown Man was Cyrus. I guess that's nice to know." He decided this was as good a time as any to discuss another  _odd_ relationship dynamic _._ He nudged away from Quentin just enough to turn onto his side, propped up on an elbow. "Hey, um, do you mind if we talk about Craig?"

Q said yes even though he wasn't quite sure what El felt the need to discuss.

"Okay, so, the thing is . . . when I walked into that stupid charity dinner I was totally prepared to spend the next week being treated like an  _astoundingly lifelike_ blow-up doll."

"Uh-huuuuuuh." Q drawled. He still didn't know what they were talking about.  _Nothing is news so far . . ._

"I was ready," Eliot repeated. "And if it had turned out that way, I'd still have no regrets right now. Not with you back."

"Yeah, I know."  _(Still no news . . .)_

"Q, I  _should have_ ended up with-well, if not a total creep, then at least some utterly self centered ass. Not the kind of guy who'd care or wanna know a single damn thing about me. And instead, I got . . . I mean, Craig is pretty much the most unlikely awesome thing that's ever happened to me-aside from bringing you back, obviously."

"Aaaaaannnnnnd?" Quentin prodded, having at last figured out where the conversation was headed, and trying to mask his profound amusement at how long it was taking Eliot to get to the freakin' point.  _Aw, you're flustered! I *never* get to see you flustered!_

"And, so, it's, that's . . . it's something really unique, and special, and I'd-if it's okay with you-it's something . . . that I'd like to keep in my life. But  _only_ if it's okaaaaa . . ." he trailed off, finally noticing the delighted glint in Quentin's eyes. "What? . . .  _WHAT?!_ "

"Eliot . . ." Quentin purred with a sly smile, gently pushing El onto his back again and settling an arm on his chest, fingers sort of drumming on his collar bone. "Anybody who falls in love with someone like you, and expects you to stop being fundamentally  _you . . ._ is a massive fucking moron. Do I look like a massive fucking moron?" He smirked down at the dark haired man, still delighted. "Think carefully, sweetheart."

"I love you so much," Eliot breathed, glad to have a potentially difficult conversation out of the way. Though he did feel a bit silly about having let himself get so nervous.

Their fifty  _amazing_ years in Fillory had ranged from polyamorous to poly _flexible,_ so why would this romance be any different? _Wh_ _at the fuck was I so worried about?_ "I love you so much," he repeated. "Seriously, how did I even find you?"

Quentin giggled. "Well, I stumbled out of the trees at Brakebills, totally clueless like-ugh, dammit. Like a massive fucking moron, actually."

"Oh yeah," Eliot grinned as Q settled himself into a nice cuddle. "And I just thought you were the new guy. Some pretty weirdo."

"Thanks a lot!" Quentin gave the other man a halfhearted shove. "Oh, but just so we're clear, I'm not actually into Craig like that. So if you were hoping for any threeway action, get over it."

"No worries," Eliot assured him. "I floated that idea on our second night together-Craig was a little  _shy_ about telling me what he wanted, and it's a pretty standard fantasy. But he said no. Not his thing." He shrugged with a somewhat mournful sigh. "I guess he's just old fashioned that way."

"Must be," Q mused, cozying closer. "Makes sense though. I mean, he is twenty something years older than us."

"True."

"Basically a fossil."

"Hey!" El poked in the ribs.

Q did the same in reply, and the two volleyed back and forth for a minute.

"So. Craig does have his own life and his own shit going on, but you are  _okay with it_  if he's sort of, like . . .  _around_ in our life?" Eliot asked, just to be one hundred percent sure they were on the same page.

"It's all good." Q giggled. "Have fun with your fossil."

"I will kick you off of this cot!"

"Bull. Shit!" Q sat up, slinging a leg over Eliot and quickly settling into a straddle. "I'm sorry, but when you go to all the trouble of bringing a man back from the dead, your threats just lose all credibility." He teased. "I don't make the rules."

Eliot moved into a half-sit, fully prepared to make good on his threat and deliver a solid  _shove_  when Ruth's stern voice cut through the moment.

"You two owe me four rows of sunburst blossoms at some point." She declared.

"Was it a fun four days?" Asked Craig, standing to Ruth's left with Loopsie cradled in his arms.

"It was," Eliot replied with a broad smile.

"How about the North Mountains?" Asked Q. "Nice?"

" _Beautiful,"_ Craig gushed, almost swooning. "The books didn't do them justice!"

"Mmhm," Ruth agreed, smoothing down her skirts. "The Minted Waterfall was stunning, and all the pixies were very kind about sharing their space. They brought us lovely feathers and mineral rocks every morning, and danced around in the trees-now Quentin darling," she changed the subject without segue. "Fetch me two small vials of dried peacock blood off my spice rack and we'll head for the south flats."

"You got it." Q hopped off the cot, gave Eliot a few light kisses, and went about his task.

El stood up slowly and stretched, yawning. "So we're going to the south flats?"

"Not you," Ruth corrected. "Quentin and I must be the only human beings around for at least a mile. No one goes to the flats, and I can cast an isolation spell over the whole area just to be sure."

 _What if something goes wrong? What if he remembers really traumatic shit? What if it messes up his brain? . . ._ El's list of concerns went on and on.

Ruth wrapped her arms around El's waist and hugged tight. "I'm one of the best at this kind magic, sweetheart. He's in good hands."

"Yeah, I know," Eliot warbled, trying to remind himself that Ruth wielded not only power, but good sense as well. "It's just that I haven't been more than twenty feet away from him since . . . god, this is gonna  _suck!"_

After a solid five minutes of worried goodbyes and soothing assurances, El was ready to let Ruth pry Quentin away from him.

And Craig was ready to step up and be, well, be  _Craig._

"You know," Craig cleared his throat. "Ruth did mention to me she has a half-finished rock garden just a little way down that path over there." He nodded to their right. "We could finish it, maybe? . . . Or if personal space is better than distraction, I can-"

"No!" Eliot cut him off without hesitation. "I am  _not_ the kind of man who should be left alone when he's distressed, and I am  _seriously_ distressed!"

"Okay," Craig responded gently, holding out a hand. "Rock garden it is, then. C'mon."

Two hours later Eliot was doing his best to focus on all things 'rock garden,' but not doing a great job.  _Q is FINE!_ He kept reminding himself.  _Ruth knows her shit! Just calm down! ROCK GARDEN!_

"NOPE!" He yelled, finally giving up the effort and leaping to his feet. "This isn't working! I tried, but it isn't, so fuck it! I give up! Can we just get shitty drunk together?"

"I'd love to," Craig replied with a warm, fond look on his face. "Some other time when it's  _fun_ and not a dangerously unhealthy coping mechanism."

"Urrrgh," Eliot groaned. "You're gonna be 'that guy.' Great. So I guess asking for a blowjob is also pointless?"

The other man nodded. "Very pointless."

"Well fucking  _Christ,_ Craig, you have to distract me somehow! I'm in dis- _tress!"_ Eliot enunciated through clenched teeth.

"Ummmmmmm . . . " Craig chewed his lower lip, thinking. "I know the Nightwings won't be out for another few hours, but uh . . . how about I go ahead and sing something ridiculous right now?"

Eliot raised an eyebrow.  _How ridiculous?_   "How ridiculous?"

"Completely silly." Craig assured him. "And weird. And I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you probably already know all the lyrics."

 _Okay, I'm curious . . ._ El stood back and crossed his arms, awaiting entertainment.

Craig took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Right. So, it's been over a decade since I went to a proper midnight showing, but . . . well, you can't ever really forget these songs."

 _Does he mean what I think he means?_ Eliot wondered, teetering on the precipice of happy."You don't mean-"

"Oh, but I do," Craig winked, flashing a broad smile. "Ahem. Here we go. . ." he gave himself a 'moment' for proper theatrical build-up before launching into the song.

" _It's astounding . . . time is fleeting . . . madness takes its toll-"_

"YES!" Eliot cheered. "Oh my god, you're into Rocky Horror!"

"Betsy and I used to go to the midnight shows in New York every Halloween dressed as Brad and Janet," Craig said with a nonchalant shrug.

"That's so  _awesome,"_  El breathed. "I only did the midnight show thing twice."

Now _Craig_ raised an eyebrow. "Do I even need to ask who you dressed up as?"

"Absolutely not!" Eliot put his hands on his hips, shoulders tilted at a sultry angle. "I look  _amazing_ in fishnets and pearls!"

The pair smirked at one another and, without prompting, skipped ahead to dance part, complete with choreography.

Eliot took the opening line:

" _It's just a jump to the left!"_

Then Craig joined in:

" _And then a step to the ri-i-i-ight!"_

" _With your hands on your hips!"_ Eliot ordered.  _"You bring your knees in ti-i-ight!"_

From that point on the pair sang together.

" _But it's the pelvic thrust, that starts to drive you in-sa-a-a-ane!_

_Let's do the Time Warp agaiiiiiiin!"_

El was about to launch into Magenta's bit when Quentin came crashing through the treeline. "Great song, love the classics, we're going back to earth!" He said, not even bothering to glance at either of them before he turned and charged back down the path toward Ruth's cottage.

Craig and Eliot looked at one another, bewildered, as Ruth herself approached.

"I figured you'd be here," she said breathlessly, clearly having chased after Q. "You weren't at home, so I told the boy we'd just scoop up a rabbit and, and go to, to the rock, rock gard-oh, I can't breathe," she interrupted herself. "But he just tore off running! Down the path, h-he just-"

"How bad is it?" Eliot asked, worried and urgent. "What he remembered, how bad is it?"

"I, I don't know," Ruth replied as her pulse settled down. "When we did the spell, it-from where I stood . . . it looked like everything hit him all at once. He came out of the trance all bug-eyed and wild, said we all had to go to earth right away, and that's it!" She flung her hands in the air. "He wouldn't explain anything else!"

"Oh noooooooo, it must be really serious, then." Eliot's voice quaked. "He  _loves_ explaining shit!"

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: Q knows shit, Ruth does shit, Craig tries shit. Also, Coincidence plays a large roll.]


	11. I've Got You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone supports everyone else. Except for the one second where everyone is pissed.

Eliot lead the charge several strides ahead of Craig and Ruth, running down the path after Quentin. He rounded a sharp left turn in the trail, and the moment he did so, the world stopped spinning.

His legs gave out.

Knees and palms hit the dirt as he tried to scream.

"Oh dear," he heard Ruth's soft voice as she darted around him and made a beeline for Q, whose body lay prone, face down, a good thirty or forty paces away. Eliot tried to yell  _'Is he alive?'_ as she knelt down beside him, but no sound could escape his throat. Even if it had, he wouldn't have been able to hear it over the sudden thundering rush of his own pulse.

_It was all for nothing . . . it was all for nothing . . ._

The world around him began turning to meaningless static.

_It was ALL for nothing!_

Craig remained standing at Eliot's side, his eyes riveted to the scene unfolding before them both. "Q's alive!" He announced joyfully, tingling with relief the moment he saw Quentin's hand rise off the ground just the slightest bit. "He's moving! He's moving! Honey, can you stand?"

Meanwhile, all Eliot could see was a pair of motionless legs, the rest of Q's body obscured from his view by Ruth's crouching form.

"El? El, can you hear me?" Craig reached out and helped Eliot struggle to his feet. "See?" He whispered, nodding toward Quentin, who was by then in the process of trying to roll over.

For what felt like the hundredth time in their still-new friendship, Eliot felt deeply grateful for Craig's presence as the other man more or less  _hauled him_ to his partner's side.

"Sloooooowly," Ruth cautioned while helping Quentin rise to a sit. "Nice and slow . . ."

"I-I don't know what happened," Q mumbled, almost to himself. "I was running, and then . . ." his confused gaze wandered over the trio of people gathered around him. "It was . . . just outta nowhere, I . . . no energy, I had-"

"Doesn't matter," Eliot breathed, dropping to the ground and pulling Quentin flush against him, clutching and kissing him over and over again. "You'll recover, you'll be fine. You'll be  _fine!"_

"But I, I . . . I don't think I can walk, Eliot!" Q said, an unmistakably distressed cadence to his voice.

"You'll walk," said Ruth with quiet, soothing confidence. "Eventually. That was a  _huge spell_ we did, Mister Quentin. It just took a little too much out of your poor body, that's all. It is still a  _new body,_ afterall, remember?"

"Right, right," Q nodded, choosing to shut down his own panic and believe the woman.

Just as they'd done those several days previous in the Fairy Queen's bathtub, Eliot took the bulk of Quentin's weight upon himself, and carefully helped the man to his feet.

"Theeeerrrrreeee you go," El cooed softly. "Hey, Craig?" He indicated Q's left arm as he pulled the right one around his own neck. "D'you mind?"

"Of course not," Craig replied, stepping immediately to the task. "Just don't push yourself too hard, okay?" He cautioned Quentin. "We don't wanna give Eliot a heart attack."

Q shook his head with a low, frustrated groan. "But we . . . we do have to . . . supplies, and . . . we gotta  _go!"_

"What supplies do we need, young man?" Ruth asked, shuffling backward as they all made their way down the path.

"The b-biggest magic you have," the weakened man replied. "Blood, dry herbs, um . . . anything you can think of with . . . lotta . . . lotta magic." He paused to catch his breath. Dragging one foot in front of the other while trying to speak was proving to be quite the difficult task. He  _barely_ had the strength to push through and keep going. "It all has to, to come . . . with us . . . back, back to earth."

Eliot pressed a kiss to the side of Q's tilted head. "Do you know where on earth?"

"Brakebills, It's, that's where . . ."

"You can tell us the rest later," Ruth assured him, gently stroking his cheek. "Save your strength. I'll run ahead and get everything gathered up." Then her gaze shifted to Eliot. "And I'll get a portal built, since that stupid Loopsie  _puffball_ refuses to transport blood!"

With that, Ruth took off running.

Less than an hour later, a being whose entire female- _ish_  physical form was comprised of rose quartz made animate (save for the eyes, which were pitch black and huge), stood on the grounds of Brakebills' main campus.

She drew close and watched as three men popped through and stepped to one side of a portal, the apparent eldest of them moving various containers out of the way as they also came through one after another after another.

"Finally," she  _(she?)_ said, addressing the weakest of the three men. "There was worry you wouldn't reach us."

"Ummmm," Eliot frowned. "Q, is this a friend of yours?"

"We've met. She's a Concept." he replied simply. "Are the other three here?" He asked her.

"They're hidden elsewhere. This Magician's Army has dispatched decoys by the hundreds, quite well drawing the Librarian's wrath in many directions. Slaughter has not been an unusual outcome. Brave creatures, it seems. These humans."

"Sorry," Eliot broke into their bizarre reunion, shaking his head. "Concept? You're a ' _concept,' . . ._ yeah, I'm gonna need a  _bit more_ clarity on that. Just for a start," he cleared his throat, "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

"You're weak," The Concept said to Quentin, utterly disregarding Eliot's confusion. "Inconvenient. Is the Blood Witch with you, at least?" Massive black eyes darted to the jars, jugs, vials, and waterskins still pouring through the portal.

"Mmhm," Q nodded, leaning heavily against El. "She'll be along, um . . . any second." Finally, after what Eliot felt was far too long, Quentin turned to face him, ready to explain. "So there's this thing called 'The All'-or, The Magician Army's been calling it that, at least, it's this sentient thing that sort of . . .evolved in the Library, I'm not really clear on how, but . . . okay, so, there's like  _millions_ of concepts out there, and The All has been absorbing them, but it won't be able to wield or control them-"

"Without us," the rose quartz creature cut him off. "The original four."

"They've existed since the beginning of the Universe, so they're harder to absorb." Q explained in a tone which seemed to suggest that the whole situation before them was normal as sunshine.

"Or . . .original . . . four?" . . .  _I'm still not getting this . . ._

"Concepts," the creature nodded. "Partnered polarities, I suppose you could say. Our existence spawned and fundamentally continues to shape reality as you know it. There is Law and Destiny, then Chaos and myself."

Ruth hopped through the portal, but Eliot was too enmeshed in the freakishly strange conversation to notice. "By  _'law,'_  you don't mean, like, the bill of rights or any of that shit?"

She shook her head. "Particle physics. Gravity. Those laws."

"Uh-huh," El nodded slowly. "So . . . Law, Destiny, Chaos, and you are . . . ?

The creature gave a quick, smart bow. "I am Coincidence."

Eliot turned to Q, feeling lightheaded and overwhelmed. "If I pass out, will you fall over too? Oh, hey Ruth."

A short while later Eliot, Quentin, Craig, Ruth, Kady, and a bunch of people Eliot didn't recognize were gathered around a large round table in what used to be the Administration Office. As the most heavily Warded place on the entire American continent, the campus of Brakebills had been converted into a makeshift fortress and infirmary.

"We'll need you right away," Kady said to Ruth. "I've got critically injured soldiers out the ass here, and we can't spare a fucking  _teaspoon_ of our battery-stored magic, so your badass blood shit is the next best thing. You'll spend today and maybe tomorrow training Alice, then the two of you will get to work healing-"

"Excuse me!" Eliot slammed his palm down on the table while the other hand clung tight to Quentin's. "Who made you the Absolute Boss here?"

" _Literally_ a million plus Magicians," Kady answered without a blink. "It turns out full-on wars do need a command structure. I've got a few hundred advisors and Generals, and yes, I do  _listen_ to them-but at the end of the day I'm the top of the fucking pyramid." She considered the subject closed at that point, and so turned her focus over to Craig Conner. "And you're claiming to have no Magic?"

"He doesn't have Magic!" Eliot insisted. "You should've seen his face when-"

"Do the words 'sleeper agent' mean anything to you, Eliot?" She spat with contempt for his naivete. "I'm sorry Mister Cooper, but you've been pretty  _conveniently helpful,_ so no offense, but I'm not letting you set one toe off this campus until my psychics comb through every molecule of your being."

"The  _fuck_ they will!" Eliot dropped Q's hand and stood up, furious.

"Can you say 'huge violation of privacy,' Kady?!" Q joined in the argument, deeply troubled by his friend's cold demeanor. "Craig has been nothing but  _awesome_ to us _,_ and he doesn't deserve to have a buncha goddamn strangers poking around in his mind! And, and snooping in all his secrets, and I . . ." He raked a hand through hair with a frustrated huff. "I can't even believe you're suggesting this! Like, who even are you anymore?"

"May I speak to these two outside?" Craig calmly asked the resolute woman seated across from him. "Not outdoors," he clarified, "just in the next room."

"Sure," Kady responded with a much softer tone. "But just so we're clear, when you're all done talking _I_   _am_ bringing in the psychics."

El scoffed and he and Quentin both opened their mouths to argue, but Craig prompted them to hold silent and follow him out of the room instead.

"This isn't gonna happen," Eliot assured him the moment the door clicked shut. "I'll-"

"I'm going to let them do it," said Craig, slipping his hands in his pockets. "Hand myself over to Kady."

"Are you fucking  _serious?"_  Quentin yelped. "She's nuts!"

"She isn't nuts." Craig insisted, still utterly calm. "I don't know who she was before, but she's a Military Commander now, there's a war on, and she's doing her job." He drew and released a carefully measured breath. "Look, I understand why you're both angry.  _We know_ I'm not a threat, or a 'sleeper agent,' but . . . my mother served. My grandfather  _and_ great grandfather served. So I am going to walk back in there, and show some damn respect."

With that, Craig gave them each a small, soft, individual smile, and left the room.

So there El and Quentin stood gaping at one another, confused and uncertain how feel about their quaking clusterfuck of a situation. Both men felt as though even the air around them had frozen in place, right down to the last spec of dust.

The motionless moment lasted until El noticed Quentin once again beginning to wobble on his feet, and stepped forward to wrap his arms around the other man's shoulders in a loose hug.

Q tucked his head beneath El's chin, arms slung around his waist, and they watched in silence through a tiny window in the door as a dozen psychics surrounded Craig in a tight circle, and marched him through a portal to someplace else.

"They better not hurt him," Eliot warbled, struggling to mirror Craig's example and have 'some damn respect' for Kady.

Quentin could feel El shuddering in his arms as the steel-eyed, stalwart woman locked eyes with him, and motioned for them both to return to the table. "C'mon," he mused under his breath, pushing and squirming his hand into Eliot's clenched fist. "C'mon, baby. I've got you."

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: The fog of war continues. Duties, missions, and challenges abound]


	12. Conversations In The Fog Of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is literally a series of conversations in the fog of war. The tactics, the damage, the consequences. It was a huge challenge to write, and I hope it's not boring despite the lack of action.

A huge round table took up most of the space in the unadorned, harshly lit room. As far as Eliot could tell it was formed from a single massive piece of granite, with magic symbols and equations carved around the full circumference in concentric rings.

 _Impressive,_ he thought.  _Put it under better lighting and I'd call it dramatic._

Less dramatic were the table's twelve chairs, which Eliot recognized as random worn-out Brakebills shit.

"Are we expecting Alice?" Quentin asked as El carefully helped him into a chair. He had yet to fully recover from the aftermath of Ruth's memory spell, so Eliot was making a serious point of remaining within arm's reach at all times.

"Not this time," Kady replied as she took a seat directly across from them.

"But you two are pretty much co-leaders, right?" Q frowned. "Shouldn't she be here for this?"

The woman shook her head no. "She and Ruth are cross-training so we can get them to work in the infirmary right away."

El and Quentin shared a confused look.

"Okay, I've met Alice and thiiiiiiis doesn't seem like the kind of meeting she'd skip out on," said Eliot, honestly worried that Kady had the bookish blonde cuffed to a wall someplace to prevent her attendance.

Kady just grinned and wrapped her knuckles on the grand table. "This thing is enchanted to record every conversation it hears, she'll catch up later. Right now, the sooner we can get her and Ruth working in the infirmary, the better. Seriously, we've got injured soldiers out the ass here, more show up every day, and I really,  _really_ need more of them to  _not die."_

Q and Eliot shared another quick glance and shrugged.

"Oh!" Kady tacked on as if interrupting her own train of thought, "And just to give you both an idea of the new geography around here, our infirmary is the entire north wing of this building and basically most of the other buildings on that side of campus. You'll both get maps after we're done here."

"Thank you," Eliot nodded.

"No problem. We actually have a whole orientation program thing set up for incoming staff, soldiers, and . . . basically anyone we expect to be here for a while." As Kady spoke, her every mannerism radiated a sense of control and efficiency.

_Maybe the whole world hasn't melted into a chaotic fuckstorm of pure crazy._

"Yeah, thanks Kady," Q echoed. "Fort Brakebills is, um . . . waaaaay different than the school."

"Oh yeah," the woman lamented. "We're all grown up and everything sucks." As she spoke, Dean Fogg entered the room. "Speaking of way different, may I present my Chief of Tactics and Intelligence." She stood up, stepped aside, and struck the pose of someone displaying a grand prize or trophy.

"Boys," Fogg gave each of them a polite nod as he undid the middle button of his blazer and sat down, followed by Kady.

No one wasted any more time on pleasantries. Kady folded her arms on the table. "Okay then. Quentin, are you ready?" It pleased Eliot that she bothered to ask the question.

"I . . ." Q turned to face Eliot, shifting nervously in his chair. "I don't even know where to start," he whispered.

"I think just dive in anywhere." Eliot replied with a tiny smile, pushing a few errant strands of hair from Q's face as he spoke. "Even if it's a weird tangled info-dump. Doesn't matter. With this nice enchanted table recording, they can sort it out later, no big deal."

"Exactly," Kady agreed. "Don't worry about it, Quentin. Even if it takes us a little time to put the pieces together, any information you have can only be helpful."

Now that Eliot wasn't so pissed off, he had to admit that Craig did seem to be right about her. She'd taken on a huge and terrifying job, and she was handling it really damn well.

"No big deal? Dive in?" Quentin's eyes darted back and forth between Kady and Fogg as he spoke, still uneasy.

They each replied with a confident nod and sat back patiently.

 _C'mon, babe,_ Eliot silently coaxed. _Remember how much you love explaining shit . . ._

Q fixed his posture, cleared his throat, and finally the story began:

"So my . . . I guess you'd call it my 'heaven'? It changed all the time. Buncha places from when I was a little. A lake where I used to fish with my dad. Nerding out with Julia when we were kids. Me, Arielle and Eliot playing with Teddy. Shit, sometimes it was just hanging out by myself feeling . . . calm. Whatever I was in the mood for, I guess."

"And at what point did things begin to go awry?" asked Fogg.

" _When_  is basically a pointless question," Q shrugged. "You're not really aware of time one way or another down there. You're dead, y'know? Like . . . outside of time. But . . . I think I was there for a long while before things got . . . really fuckin' weird. All of my heaven scenarios felt familiar, uh, 'broken in,' I guess, when the first swarm of books showed up."

Kady and Fogg shared a knowing grin.

"We were right," Kady mused to her colleague. "Redundant drafts went looking for  _him."_

"Wait," Eliot frowned. "Redundant drafts? Isn't that sort of . . . impossible? Aren't our books the final word on all our lives? Then again," he looked at Quentin, "Alice did say yours ended with the Monster killing you, and that obviously changed."

"Uh-huh," Q nodded. "The Library wants us all to believe those books are the Final Word or whatever, with only maybe a few exceptions, but what if it's  _not_ just a few exceptions?" His tone of voice was becoming more assertive and confident by the second, a vivid contrast pitched against a gradually decreasing physical strength. "They fucking  _need us_ to think they're this absolute all powerful thing in, like, the whole cosmos, but all the books flying around me were . . . I mean, I'd see like five or six volumes with the same name on the cover."

"What names did you see?" asked Kady.

"Some drafts were our books," Q indicated everyone at the table, "but a lot of the names I didn't recognize, just random people, I guess. Anyhow, I tried to read as many as I could catch ahold of, and it got fuckin'  _wild._  One of mine had me married to Jules and we died of old age within a week of each other."

"Aw," Eliot cooed, going a bit doe-eyed. He was a sucker for sweet endings.

Quentin went on. "In another one I dropped dead from health problems before first grade."

"Okay, less  _aw,"_ El pouted. "Glad that one didn't stick-were any of the scrapped drafts mine? What'd they say?" He couldn't help indulging the tickle of curiosity.

"I'm not sure that's relevant right-" Kady didn't have time to finish before Q answered his partner's question.

"Oh yeah, your books were aaaaaallllll the hell over the place. In one you were a raging meth-head, in another you were a Baptist Minister-"

_Me and ministry. Now there's an image._

"Sometimes a book was only a few chapters long and  _didn't_ end with the person's death. Like fate took a random left turn and the Library was late getting the memo." A lopsided smile slid across his face as he threaded his fingers with Eliot's. "And you'll like this: one of yours wasn't even hardbound, it was more like a thin magazine, and it was only two scenes. You watched your biggest regret play out, and kissed memory-me."

 _Awwwwww._ The shining doe eyes returned. "I do like that."

"Scene fragments!" Dean Fogg yelped, obviously pleased. "Kady and Alice saw one of those 'thin magazine' types you just described, but only the one, so we surmised perhaps a one-time glitch, or a brief lapse in magic."

"One time? Brief?" Quentin shook his head. "Nah, there were at least fifty like that. Fucking  _swarms."_

El closed his eyes and groaned. "I am . . . completely lost."  _And things were so cute there for a second._

Kady leaned forward. "I apologize, Eliot," she assured him. "I know you two aren't used to being out of the loop, so I'll try to nutshell this for you: from the intelligence we've gathered, it looks like the Library didn't start hoarding a private supply of ambient magic until about six or seven hundred years ago, and they did it so they'd have enough power to pull off what they've been  _claiming_ to do since the beginning. To write everyone's 'One and Only' book, without even the chance of contradiction. Y'know," she shrugged, "full stop, the end, moving on. Nice and simple."

"But all that power they amassed became a consolidated entity at some point," Fogg jumped in. "And developed a kind of sentience."

"And that's The All?" Eliot frowned.

Kady nodded. "Mmhm."

_Okay, starting to make sense . . ._

She went on. "We've managed to hit the Library's magic supply hard enough to weaken their hold on the Redundancy Room, which is how those drafts you saw managed to escape," she nodded toward Quentin."

"And they went looking for him?" Eliot asked the pair seated across from him. "Specifically? Why him?"

"Not sure," the commanding pair replied in unison.

"I, I  _think_ I actually have a theory on that," said Q, clearing his throat as he angled himself to face Eliot directly. "And it involves the spell that brought me back. Your spell."

For what felt like the hundredth time, Eliot frowned.  _Remember when all your day to day shit made sense? No? Okay, just checking._

"The thing is, one draft of your book had you totally failing to bring me back and kinda . . . dying a miserable old drunk." He cradled El's hands in his own, gently tracing details. "But with  _actual me_ in the Underworld and  _actual you_ up here trying so hard to put the spell together, I will bet fucking  _anything_ that your old 'total failure' draft was the first one to come charging out of the Redundancy Room the second it could, and went looking for me." He turned back to Fogg and Kady. "So the other books just followed after it. Like sheep or something."

"How many drafts did you manage to catch?" asked Kady.

"Oh, good Christ! A fuckton!" Q replied. "Like I said, time kinda does weird shit down there, so it seemed like everything froze while I chased down books, but the first one I caught? And all of them after? . . . A lotta shit was crossed out, stuff scribbled in the margins, all that. And . . ." again his focus shifted to Eliot. "A whole lot of them were yours. Some even had your full name on the cover, and Eliot wasn't even always your first name. Sometimes it was your  _middle name._ Weird, right?"

"Uh-huuuuh . . ."  _why do I feel like I know where this is going . . ._

Quentin continued. "Yeah, the weirdest fucking thing about it was that on  _those_ covers your first name was always-"

"Todd," Eliot grumbled, rolling his eyes. "It was tooooootaaaaaally Todd, right?" He didn't wait for Q's confirmation. "I'm sure that lovely detail will become relevant to my life at some point, but continue."

Quentin took a beat, struggling to sort through the jumble of information swimming around in his brain. "Okay . . . ummmmmmm . . . yeah, so, remember that Logan kid you told me about a few days after we met? The one you accidentally-"

"I remember," Eliot cut him off.

"Well, in one of the books I caught, you didn't make the bus hit him with your mind, he pushed you in front of it.  _He_ killed  _you."_

"Seriously?!" El gasped. "He killed me?"  _I guess that's nice, a draft where I'm not a killer._

"Yeah," Q replied. "He'd tried to kiss you a few months earlier, and after that, you . . . well, you kinda constantly tormented him about it. Closet-shamed him, teased him for being attracted to you, threatened to out him a few times-"

"So I was an asshole?"  _(Goddamnit!)_

Q tried to refute the notion, but the look on Eliot's face read 'don't bullshit me, sweetheart,' so he gave up and told the truth. "I mean, not a 'deserved sudden death by bus,' kind of asshole, obviously, but . . . well, yeah. You were . . . awful to him. So one day he saw the bus coming and just snapped."

"We've officially veered  _way_ off topic here," Kady interrupted. "Moving on: what else ya got Quentin? Anything?"

"We already know you encountered Coincidence down there." said Dean Fogg. "When our people found her at the designated fountain, she told us that you'd helped her to escape. At that point we knew you'd be monumentally useful if Eliot did indeed manage to resurrect you."

"Actually, I found Destiny first," Quentin corrected the man. "And it was like this formless . . . shadow thing, glowed sometimes. I just knew what it was on like a, a, psychic level or something, and that it was trapped. Along with Coincidence."

"Fascinating," Dean Fogg leaned back in his chair, fingers threaded together as he pondered the mental image.

"I still can't remember how I helped it get free, but . . . I did . . . at some point . . . and its magic helped me bust into dozens of other people's heavens to search until I found the one where Coincidence was hiding, and helped her escape the Underworld too. From then on . . ." he trailed off. This was the part that troubled him the most. "From there, things kept getting hazy. I wasn't in any of the heavens anymore, but I'd forget why, what I was doing, where I was going-"

Kady jumped in. "Then you'd remember, then it went away again, over and over and over?"

"Mmhm." The memory of such a disorienting experience still made Quentin a little dizzy. "And it felt like fucking  _ages_ this shit kept happening, but eventually Penny found me." He flashed Eliot a wobbly smile. "I'm not sure how, but I think he knew that a draft of your book was leading the charge to bust me out. I was wandering around all lost and turned around 'til I heard his voice barking at me to follow the green book with gold lettering."

Dean Fogg and Kady exchanged a satisfied look.

"W-was that useful?" Q asked. "Was any of it useful?"

Kady nodded. "You've confirmed several theories. And we haven't been able to locate Destiny, but now at least we know you got it out of the Underworld. We were kinda sailing on pure hope with that one."

"Good," Quentin sighed.

Eliot noticed him swaying in his chair, and a slight tremor in his hands. "Are you worn out?" He asked in a quiet, gentle voice.

"Uuuuuuuh," Q warbled as his body tilted against Eliot's for support. "Not if there are more questions." Tired, glassy eyes gazed across the table at his friend and the Dean. "Are there? I, I can fill in more details if you need."

Kady's eyes darted to Eliot. His worry and concern was obvious, so she decided to wrap things up. "I can just have someone track you down later if we need more."

"Thank you," Eliot sighed, taking on most of Quentin's weight as the man hoisted himself from his chair.

Though he did wear out easily, over the next several days Q gradually improved. Steadier on his feet, sharper focus, less hazy.

 _So close to normal,_ thought Eliot as the pair ambled around the grounds one midafternoon, Quentin barely leaning on him for support at all.  _We're almost there. A few more weeks, tops._

But then . . .

El growled under his breath the first time he saw it.

His adorable self-punishing dolt of a boyfriend sitting next to an injured soldier's bedside, using literally all of his strength to heal the man's broken bones.

He knew Ruth and Alice had repaired this patient's serious organ damage earlier that day, so it was beyond him why they needed Q's magic for any damn thing, especially not when he was so frail.

Still, rather than interrupt Q's magic (which did seem to be working), he went looking for an explanation from one of the women.

He found Alice in a north wing office reading through a stack of files Eliot didn't give a shit about. Medical, tactical, fucking  _office memos,_ he didn't care. He was there for exactly one reason, and everything else could just piss off.

"Why the hell is Q doing healing magic right now?" He asked, trying his hardest not to yell. "He was just starting to get his strength back, Alice! How can you let him do this?!"

Alice sighed and closed the file in front of her. "I'm sorry, Eliot. I know you're worried for him, and I get it, but even with me and Ruth's magic together, it takes  _hours_ of work to heal shredded fucking organs," she explained. "And we're pretty much stacked to the ceiling with patients, so having Quentin take care of smaller stuff like shattered femurs and skull fractures, surface or shallow-ish tissue wounds, that kind of thing? It means Ruth and I can put all our focus  _this kind_  of shit."

She held up a report and waved it in his general direction.

"I assume that's a serious case?" His eyes followed the report as it waved around.

"Extremely! Eliot, we are  _barely_ staying ahead of all the internal bleeding, collapsed lungs, it took us nearly three hours yesterday just to fix a woman's blown-open stomach and upper GI tract, the temp med crew's  _collective_ magic was the only thing keeping her alive until we could get to her-"

"Okay, that's-"

"I'm not stupid, okay?!" Alice insisted, clearly stung by the insinuation that she didn't care about Quentin's health. "I realize that even doing _basic magic_  sets his recovery back several notches, I know that, but it's nothing bad enough to kill him again, I promise. It'll just . . . prolong his recovery . . . maybe even a lot," she muttered wearily. "But anyway, he's the one who volunteered to help in the first place."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Eliot rolled his eyes.  _Great, now I've got this shit to deal with._

Alice was right when she said Q's spellwork wasn't doing him any  _serious_ damage. He wasn't having strokes or heart attacks or anything. But every time he worked on a patient, even for fractures, it did leave him drained all to hell. Regressed in his own progress toward physical normalcy.

El tried to convince him it was a bad idea to be doing such strenuous work in his condition, and that he should just take a hiatus from magic, but the stubborn little fuck insisted on doing anything he could to support the war effort.

"This is something I can do  _right now,_ Eliot! No waiting for my strength to come back, y'know,  _completely_ -because who the fuck knows how long that'd take anyway," Q huffed. "So yeah, I'm gonna do whatever the hell I can to heal up anyone I can! NOW!" He declared, completely resolute. "Then at least  _they_ can get back out there and fucking fight!"

Some version of the argument played out many times over several tiring days before Eliot gave up.

"Your body your choice, I guess," he sighed one evening as they settled into bed, having taken up residency in one of the old dorm rooms on the first floor of the east wing. The ones reserved for staff and officers.

Like it or not, he finally had to accept that Quentin needed a sense of usefulness more than he needed his own vitality. A tough pill for Eliot to swallow, but rather than go on rehashing the same squabble a million more times (and always losing), he found another way to cope with all the worry. He closely observed Q's work with each patient, documenting the spells and their aftermath.

_6/05: Flesh wound, 4 inches long, 1 inch deep. 5 minutes active casting, I took over incantation at minute 2 so Q could focus on handwork. He fainted briefly after, could only take a few steps unassisted. Took 3 hours before he could cross a room on his own. But then the jackass went and healed someone's broken nose. No fainting, but unsteady on his feet for rest of day._

_6/07: Deep wound (knife?) to gut, lower intestine pierced. 20 minutes active casting, sweat profusely, but completed the spell w/out help, so there's an improvement, I guess. Then couldn't move from his chair and needed several glasses of water, which I had to hold for him._

_6/09: Two eyeballs ENTIRELY MUTILATED by shrapnel, and a crushed shoulder. Seriously crushed. Spell took over an hour. One eye still partially damaged. Q bedridden for 2 days. I keep waiting for him to say he can't take it anymore and QUIT, but every goddamn day, nope. More healing spells. Fuck war. Just fuck it sideways._

_6/20-24: Convinced Kady and Alice to lie and tell Q they'd captured a decent cache of ambient magic from the Library so they could do without his help for a few days. We spent those days shuffling around the grounds of Brakebills. Got up to 35 minutes on his own before needing help. 35 minutes is a huge win these days. The spell I used to bring him back can only be used on anyone once so if Q ends up having a stroke, Craig will have to talk me out of killing Kady for letting him do this shit._

_7/05: Alice now helping me transfer a ton of my own magic to Q so he can get through shit. He is helping and he's seriously amazing at the work, but some nights when we go to bed I'm pretty sure I don't have enough magic left to float a feather. I'd say something, but it's not like I'm *damaged* or anything, and I'm fine the next day. And I think he actually NEEDS the work, it makes him so fucking happy. Healing broken people. Soldiers and spies, all that shit. We go to bed happy. The last few weeks I've done literally zero magic that doesn't involve helping him, but it's not like I need magic to help him walk around or fetch aspirin, and the war has to end eventually, so it's fine. I have to believe we'll be fine._

They were strolling amid blossoming trees and shrubs one morning when Craig came sprinting up behind them.

"Guys!" He called out, waving his arms in the air. "Hey guys, not to intrude on your morning, but I thought you'd want to know right away, Margaret-sorry, Margo-" (Craig had a sister named Margaret, so he slipped up on Margo's name sometimes) "It seems like she's coming out of it."

"Really?!" Eliot gasped, wide-eyed, almost nervous.  _Great news on a beautiful morning? Is life starting to not suck?_

"Mmhm," Craig nodded. "I peeked in to check on her, and she's . . ." he flashed a broad grin . . . "We had an actual, two-way  _conversation._ She made eye contact and everything."

"I, I'm, th-" El stammered, still half afraid to believe it.

"See?" Q squeezed Eliot's hand and gave him a quick kiss. "I told you she was still in there somewhere."

"YES!" El shouted finally, jittering and giddy. "Fan _tastic!_  Okay! We're off to see the King, c'mon honey!" He tugged Quentin's arm and took a few steps in the general direction of the sanitarium, formerly known as the physical kid's cottage, but his boyfriend's feet remained planted where they were.

"Um, actually . . . maybe the two of you should hang out for a while. On your own." He said with a forced chuckle. "Y'know, just . . . be gossipy besties and stuff. Do your thing."

"Is that really a good idea right now?" El stepped close to his partner, eyes swimming with concern. "What if we get a rush of new patients who need-"

"Other people can help me walk, Eliot, it's not that fucking complicated!" Q yelled.

El let go of his arm and stood there, staring.

"Shiiiiiit." Quentin groaned, shoulders slumped. "Look, you've been amazing. You have. This whole time. You're supportive, an-and  _so_ totally there for me. But, um . . . it's just . . . well, you're  _always there."_

"Hm." Eliot pursed his lips, mentally reframing his behavior over the last few months. "Too clingy?"

"Like a human barnacle." Q shifted on his feet like an embarrassed schoolboy. "Sorry."

"Ah. Well then." Eliot took a moment to let that sobering reality sink in. "I don't think 'barnacle' is a look I can pull off elegantly. So then . . . I guess I'm off to see Margo. By myself."

Quentin sagged with relief, arms wrapping around around El's waist. "Thank you," he leaned back and smiled up at the taller man. "Tell her I said hi."

With that, Craig took over the task of Quentin-sitting, and as he walked away Eliot listened to the two men discussing how Dean Fogg wanted to hire Craig onto Brakebills' faculty after they won the war and got back to being a school. ' _Non-magical Thinking in the Application of Magic,'_ or something like that.

Fogg had been so dumbfounded by Craig's rabbit-travel epiphany, and the simple obvious logic of it, that he'd been picking the man's brain ever since. Posing hypothetical questions, scenarios and whatnot.

"For now, though, he and Kady have me assigned to the Strategic Advisory Committee," was the last thing El heard before moving out of earshot.

(Well, second to last thing. He did hear Quentin respond with a nerdly enthusiastic: 'that is so  _cool!')_

 _A few hours of not-me company is probably good for him,_ Eliot had to admit.  _Maybe both of us._

So for the first time in what felt like forever he let himself focus entirely on someone other than Quentin.

 _GodDAMN! Margo!_ He thought, sprinting toward the physical kid's cottage and picking up speed with every step.  _Jesus FUCK, it's been over a year . . ._

Margo had occupied a private room in the cottage in a waking catatonic state ever since she made a carefully calculated tactical move. Namely hiding Chaos several miles under the ocean floor, which ended up causing a massive tsunami. The wave pushed inland between three and five miles, killing tens of thousands.

The move was bold, the Library hadn't seen it coming at all, and it  _did_ have the desired side effects insofar as leaving the Library baffled, chasing their own tails, and questioning  _all_ of their intelligence and battle plans. But on a personal, human level . . . ?

Eliot wasn't sure which fact broke Margo the hardest: the catastrophic loss of life, or the fact that if they failed to defeat The All (and by default the Library) then The All would achieve complete control over every aspect of reality, rendering any loss of human life on the path to victory merely  _unfortunate._

Basically a trivial concern when pitched against the possibility of 8 billion people becoming pawns to an all-powerful . . . well,  _All-_ and on top of that awful prospect, The All gaining an entire universe of natural laws to use, or change, or even destroy. On a whim.

If Magicians lost the war, and The All did absorb the four original concepts, Coincidence, Chaos, Destiny, and Law? It would be able to do  _literally_  anything.

Switch gravity off and on.

Wipe out or create any creature it chose.

Make the sun explode.

The list of possible horrors was endless.

Which meant his best friend was going to spend the rest of her life knowing two awful things. That  _her counterattack_ resulted in catastrophic devastation,  _and_ that said counterattack was probably, when push came to shove, the best option on a long list of nothing but shitty options.

 _Not like some kid-friendly Disney movie or dipshit CW show._ El thought bitterly as he entered the cottage and made his way upstairs.  _Where there's ALWAYS a less fatal option at the last fucking minute. Right. Of course. Hope wins the day, end credits roll, tune in next week. What a pile of bullshit._

Margo was sat in a chair gazing out the window when Eliot entered the room. She didn't rise from her seat, but did hold out her arms for a hug, which he gladly crouched into.

"Welcome back, Bambi."

"Thanks," Margo warbled, her head resting on El's shoulder. "I've been tuning in and out the last few days, actually. Waking comas are dull as  _fuck._ I'm over it."

Eliot nuzzled at his friend, then leaned back and smoothed down her hair. "We do hate boring."

He pulled over another chair from a few feet away, sat down, and waited for Margo to lead the conversation. He had a million questions about everything she'd been through in the last year, and specifically more recent events, but it was obviously the wrong time to bombard her with questions.

So he just sat there, his hands resting in her lap as she clutched them like a lifeline.

 _Whatever you wanna talk about is good . . ._ he thought.  _Or we can just sit here._

"There was this woman who lived on our block when I was a kid . . ."

_Weird place to start, but okay._

"Every morning she went for a jog. Took the dog with her. Then she dropped the kids off at school, went to work at a . . . fuck, I don't know where, but she was like a receptionist or something. She'd drive home, cook dinner . . . do it all again the next day." Margo heaved a deep sigh. "I used to look at her and think: 'jesus what a boring, tiny life. I will never let myself have a life like that. But now . . ." Margo's eyes welled up with tears. "I'd give a million dollars for a life like that. Predictable, y'know?"

Eliot nodded, saying nothing.

"I feel like I've fucking  _mutated,_ El."

"How do you mean?" He asked gently.

"I mean . . . my life revolved around you and me partying . . . and doing whatever, or  _whoever_ we wanted. Then it was all about being Queen. Then King. And I loved it. I  _loved_ being that powerful and . . . important. The bitch running the show, right? Even when the show got shitty, being the King felt like . . .  _me._  But do you know what I dream about now, Eliot? Like, literally  _dream about_  at night?"

"What?"

Her face contorted in what looked to Eliot like shame.

"I abdicate the throne to Fen. Me and Josh find a cute little house in a cute little neighborhood-a sort of beat up old place-and we fix it up together. Then you and Quentin move in down the street . . . we have backyard barbeques. Game nights. Margarita Mondays. And when you two eventually have kids I'm the Fun Aunt. And I'm happy." Again, her face scrunched up. "It's just so small and, and . . .  _pathetic."_ Finally, a pair of tears did fall from her eyes.

"It's just different," Eliot shrugged calmly. "You're a different person now, so what?" He moved his chair closer to hers. As close as he could get. "Crown and throne, or giant gardening hat and picket fence, you don't owe anyone  _any apologies_ for whatever makes you happy. What. The fuck.  _Ever."_

"Seriously?" His best friend raised an eyebrow, tears still falling. "You could love 'Giant Gardening Hat' Margo?"

"I'd still love Mom Jeans Margo." El replied with a soft smile.

Margo finally letting out a real _,_ genuine laugh. "I draw the line at Mom Jeans!" She insisted.

El shrugged as his soft expression transformed into a teasing grin. "You could bedazzle them."

"Bedazzled Mom Jeans!" Margo giggled as she scooched into her friend's lap, arms wrapping tight around his neck. "Fuck, I've missed you  _so much!"_

Before Eliot had the chance to crack another gentle joke, a rabbit appeared in the middle of the room, followed by Kady and Alice.

Kady's face was set in stone. Alice's shone with worry.

"God _damnit!"_ El and Margo spat in unison, both slumped and annoyed.

"You're about to shit on our parade, aren't you?" Eliot asked, already certain the answer was 'yes.'

Both women nodded as Q and Craig appeared to their left, seconds behind another rabbit.

"Okay, we're here, all together." Q breathed, looking at Kady and Alice. "Where's Coincidence?"

"In huge fucking danger, that's where," Kady replied. "There's no time to explain, but we have to hide all of you. No offense but Q and Margo are useless right now, Eliot won't leave Q, Margo won't leave Eliot, and neither will Craig, apparently, so you're all going."

"To someplace." Alice interjected. "We don't know where yet, but it needs to have a large concentration of mineral deposits-minerals seem to screw with the Library's tracking capabilities and a lot of their battle magic as well. So," she heaved a deep and weary sigh. "We pick a destination and bunny-hop you all there  _immediately._ Sorry, but Ruth stays with us, we need her caliber of blood magic or we're beyond fucked."

Craig raised a tentative hand. "Would a . . . would a batshit billionaire's survival bunker carved into the side of a mountain in Wyoming be a good spot?"

"You have a survivalist bunker?" Eliot groaned. "Seriously?"

"It's not  _mine,"_ Craig replied bashfully. "But some of my friends are . . .  _eccentric._  And Riley happens to have an 'end of days' fixation. One phone call and we're good." He gave Alice and Kady a confident nod. "Long story, but this guy thinks I'm god, he'll give me any damn thing I ask for."

Quentin gazed at Eliot with eyes trying desperately to broadcast optimism. "I mean . . . it's away from the war, right? Maybe it'll feel like a, sort of, a getaway. . . vacation?" He gave up on the valiant effort to smile.

"Vacation?" Eliot turned his attention to Craig. "What's the food situation in this bunker?"

"Water, dehydrated foods, other non perishables. Enough to last thirty people three years."

"Canned peas and powdered milk." Margo cringed. "Fuck, I should have stayed in the coma."

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

[UP NEXT: Our Heroes lie to a paranoid rich guy. Eliot and Quentin talk about life after war. Margo subjects Craig to the Best Friend Interrogation. Also: survivalist bunker.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm almost certain that the next chapter will be the finale. Whether or not I attempt a S6 fic taking off from where this one ends is a question still up in the air.

**Author's Note:**

> All chapters will end with TO BE CONTINUED until my "season 5 finale." 
> 
> FINALE will be specified in the summary, and close w/THE END.
> 
> So if you see "THE END" and I haven't specified that it's the finale in the summary? I've made a mistake out of habit (which is totally something I'd do) so someone please point it out to me asap so I can fix it, 'cause I'll never notice that shit on my own. 
> 
> Thanks a big ol' bunch!


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